Prelude to Conflict
by EarthDiva-x
Summary: Lead up to WWII and present day, AU. Chapter 25: We could not escape this day, even though we tried. Babylon, 323 BC
1. Rākha

**Everlasting Night**

**Title: **Prelude to Conflict  
**Chapter 1: **Rākha  
**Characters: **Aryan, India  
**Rating: **PG-13.  
**Summary: **The best of intentions are not always enough.

_Southern Punjabi Region, 3,000 BC_

The rainy season had just ended the first time she saw him. It had been near dawn, the new day less than an hour from breaking. Normally, she would have just awakened, rising as her women did with the coming sun. It was a pattern that had been steady for as long as she could remember, the years melding onto one another as the passage of time rendered naming it meaningless.

However, instead of waking early on this day she still had yet to sleep from the night before. The stars and a sliver of the moon had kept her company throughout the night, her sole companions as sleep had evaded her grasp, as thoughts of change had troubled her once unshakable peace.

She almost hadn't noticed him coming.

She watched as he entered the valley that lay beyond her village, a village that ten small generations ago she could have called small and now could not. Even in the predawn light, barely gracing the land, she could see him for what he was, though she didn't need the light to _feel _it. Such things were above the comprehension of normal men.

He was a trespasser, foreign and alien to these lands where her rule was absolute. Yet, he was similar in one way, and in one way alone.

_He was someone like her._

She had met her own kind before, in her eyes and in those of her people. She knew the ones who lived at her borders, whose lands touched hers and reached out into the mountains and beyond. She had been wary of them, as had the other children (_for that's all that they had been in those days_) been of her.

Each probed the edges of their territories, only to withdraw from each other; she herself had drawn herself back into the core of her land, to be away from others and their sway. There was a peace, an empty sort that kept each of them safe in their own solitude. She could tolerate their existence as long as they stayed away from her land, away from her people.

As long as each and every one of them stayed away from _her._

This one was similar, yet so different from the others. The others had been content to learn the reach of their land and had avoided one another in their retreat; this paler one was here alone, far from his people yet walking as if this was his land.

As if its people belonged to him. As if _she_ belonged to him.

The peace of her morning long since evaporated, trepidation and anger grew slowly inside her chest as he made his way across. She would not dignify this incursion by fleeing back to the safety of her village, nor would she confront him, as if to admit that his presence legitimized a claim on her. As long as she went unnoticed, she would wait for him to pass.

As a living goddess, she had no need to submit to his will.

If he walked towards the village, she had little doubt what would have befallen him. Her people would sense his strange presence (just as they did around her), and would not tolerate this incursion: they had as little mercy for outsiders as herself. They, like she, would do anything to keep the outside world from coming into their own.

_To keep the coming change away for just a little while longer._

_He was still just one person, as much of a child as was she. He could not deny her will._

She watched him as he first slowly walked south, pausing only to turn east as he followed one of the rivers that served as the lifeblood of her people. She watched him coldly, her eyes following him until he reached the end of the clearing, her gaze never swaying as the sun began its ascent into the sky.

He turned back once, and only once, when he reached the forest once more. The thought that he had been able to sense her for what was had occurred to her, though she cared little but for his absence at this point. His eyes (such an unnatural, _disgusting_ blue) found hers without effort, and her disdainful gaze was met by one of muted, guarded curiosity. After a few moments he moved on, unconcerned about the malice in her eyes, gone into the wood and out of her range of sight.

The apprehension and anger that his presence brought still lingered on her chest, but it was slowly joined by something new, a quiet, mild sort of intrigue. She did not like this man, whoever he was. She did not want him or his kind in her land or amongst her people. Still, he had made a claim against her, by his mere, repulsive presence, and she would wait and see as to what kind of threat he would be.

_As if he could take what was rightfully hers._

Her lips, which had been pursed tightly together as she watched him, relax into a shadow of a smirk as he leaves. _'Yes, this is something new.'_

She despised change, but a challenge was something she could deal with. With this in mind, she gracefully rose from where she had sat as the darkness gave way to the morning light. Making her way back towards the village the sun warmed her body, dispelling the anxiety that the intruder had brought.

* * *

_1,500 BC_

_And he did return, and his threat had been true._

_The second time he brought his armies with him, thousands of soldiers falling upon her villages and taking from her what had been her birthright, which had been her will. The society her people had worked so hard to create had been shattered, the delicate civilization that she had been so proud of crushed as he supplemented his own._

_She had fought (how could she _**not **_have fought?), as did her people and those in the neighboring lands, but he fought harder. Whatever drove him into their land (_her land_), whatever pushed him from the distant home he came from gave him the strength to force them under his rule._

_He controlled them, smothering her with his attention as he tried to make all of the nations one upon himself. He built his cities on their land, brought his language to their people, wielding his might upon them all._

_Yet, he could not do the one thing he sought to do. He had taken them all, taken her as his own, and yet, as the years passed into decades and centuries and more, there was one thing he could not do._

_He had come to her to make her a part of herself; nonetheless…_

* * *

_Delhi, 320 BC_

The end had not come soon enough.

Sh had felt it coming long before he noticed that his hands were less steady, that his legs could no longer carry him across his stolen lands as they once did. Fighting had had nothing to do with it. There had been resistance in all of their lands, especially in the south: he had tried to take the young one who ruled there, but he was already stretched too far for his hold to last.

He had lost in the west first. Invaders from the east had made their way into his lands, aided to victory by the child he had conquered first so long ago. Still, as they pressed onward deeper into his lands, he thought he would win. She had been his stronghold, his bastion, his jewel. He had prized her, and in his brash youth he had told her he loved her. Perhaps he had truly meant it, as both an empire and a man. He knew how she felt (and also what she did _**not**_); still, he had thought that there would be more time. Things could change, and he would once again spread his kingdom across the lands.

_If only…_

It wasn't on the battlefield that he had truly lost, not really. It had been something that a man would not think of, would not even acknowledge until it was far too late to act. It was in her temples, where her people worshiped what was once his religion that now centered upon herself, as their faith had been since before he was born. It was on the tongues the masses, who thought, spoke, and wrote in the languages of her dreams. In the hearts of the people, who have begun not calling themselves by his name, but by hers.

Things were changing, but not in the way that he had hoped.

He dragged himself towards her city from the west, his body reeling from his latest defeat. He was trapped between the two rivers, once the core of his power and now the markers of his empire's rapidly decreasing frontier. The city (_to think it had been just a sprawl of huts a few dozen generations _ago) was unbearably large, and had her home not been at the edge along the river he would have died wandering in the streets.

The fact that she had been sitting near the gate had not bothered him. The idea that she had been sitting there (_for how long_?) waiting for him (_as if she had known he would lose_) once would have, but now he was beyond caring about such things: just reaching her was the only thing that mattered now.

'_Besides, it's her. Of course she would know. Isn't this what she had wanted? Isn't this what she had been waiting for?'_

She watched him approach, his once proud step now little more than a stumbling gait. She sat serenely, the very image of perfection with her hands folded above her saffron sari, not bothering to offer aid as he dragged himself towards her. He had come this far, he could go a little farther.

_As if she had once belonged to him, if only in his mind._

He continued until he could go no farther. Collapsing against the wall of the outer gate, he was only mildly surprised to find himself steadied as she wrapped an arm around his waist. Once so strong, now he was frail enough so that she could navigate him into her home with ease, his once powerful frame no stronger than that of a child. Without words or miscalculation, she laid him down upon her sleeping pallet, his emaciated frame and his sallow skin a sickly contrast to the pure white sheets.

They had yet to speak a word to each other as she left him to retrieve some water, returning to gently bring the vessel towards his lips as his hands could no longer do the job themselves. He tried making eye contact with her, anything to establish some sort of communication with her. When he finally could meet her eyes, aall he could find was her placid gaze, lovely in its perfection and void of any kindness. After that, he closed his eyes.

She tended to him the days that followed, each one feeling shorter than the last. Aside from bandaging some of his larger wounds, there was little else she did in the way of nursing; there was no need, not at this point. When he was thirsty, she gave him water; when he was hungry, she gave him what little fragments food his shriveled stomach could bear. Most of the days he spent in a broken mix of consciousness and nothingness, with half formed nightmares and lost dreams tearing at his thoughts. And she waited.

It would not be long now.

He had been fully awake on the last day. As the last vestiges of his empire crumbled, he was finally able to reclaim most of his thoughts. Early struggles he remembered, along with triumphs, grief and despair combated by a single dream that drove him into this part of the world, of the lands he had unified and the empire brought into existence. Of her, and the time she had spent as his. Of the end, and of everything that should have been.

Mostly, he tried to think of her.

'_Hadn't they been happy? Hadn't he brought them, all of them, something worthwhile? He had brought them up from the backwards villages he had found all those years ago, he had formed them into an empire that could rival the ones he had fled in the west. Why could they not stand by him now, when he needed them the most, when he needed _her _the most? Why couldn't she just lo- '_

"_Because_." she whispered, a single word with no need of a partner; his eyes, that had been taking in the view of the dying sun, moved towards her, disbelieving that she had truly spoken, truly spoken after all of this time. What he saw was her gazing upon him with a look of mild interest, as if he wasn't dying upon her bed. It was not much different than how she had looked at him in the years that she had been his.

When she didn't continue, he opened his lips as if to speak, but when he tried to push the air out all he could manage was pained rasped. Smiling softly, with her lips and not with her eyes, she placed a finger upon his lips, her other hand reaching for the water that was near the bed. _'You should be quiet,'_ she eyes mused as she brought the liquid to his lips. He tried to speak again, this time managing one word.

"_Why_?".

She said nothing for a while, content with adjusting some of his loose bandages before looking out towards the sun. After a few moments, his gaze joined her own, wondering if she would allow him no more of her words. He thought that she truly wouldn't answer when she finally broke her silence.

"_It is as it should be. You brought yourself and your people onto me: it was only a matter of time before they became a part of myself. You want others to change, but you won't yourself. I hate change" _her eyes flit over towards him, _"but I do not deny it."_

With a light shrug, she turns her body back towards him, smoothing the hair away from his face in a gesture that could almost have been kind. _"Your people and your ways will still exist, but only as a part of myself, 'empire'. You should be happy knowing that I will continue bearing that part of you, since in that way and in that way alone you will not cease to exist."_

He didn't know if he wanted to laugh or to cry or to scream. '_No…'_

'_No, it's not fair, it's not, why?!'_

His eyes had screwed shut, trying to hold back the tears that had waited a lifetime to fall. He fisted his hands in the sheets, twisting the fabric with what meager strength his wasted body had left. His body tensed, racked with a pain that echoed in his mind as . As he whe felt it beginning to fail. He opened his mouth only to clamp his teeth down again, trying once more and failing to even say a word.

'_Will this truly be how this ends?'_

His torment was interrupted as cool lips pressed themselves against the corner of his right eye, brushing away the tears that had caught along the eyelashes before moving on to his left. One of her hands rubbed the side of his face, caressing the chapped skin with fingers lighter than silk, the other tracing his lips before replacing them with her own.

She had never initiated contact with him before, and knowing that this was the end made him try to return the kiss with what little strength remained in him. She brought his body closer to hers, pulling his emaciated frame flush against hers on her own will for the first and last time. The sweetness of her touch, and the softness of her lips helped him not feel it as the remnants of his empire shattered, as his name became nothing but a word to be lost in time.

She joined him in her bed as his life ended, as the last remnants of his empire broke back into a hundred tiny nations of man that would one day rejoin into an empire once more. An empire he would never see.

_Hers, and hers alone._

Her name had been on his mind and upon lips as he died. Even after the focus was gone from his eyes, and the warmth faded from his body she held onto him. She had not wanted him in life; she would not want him in death. However, in these last moments where he straddled the cross between both worlds she could accept that he had bore no ill-intent against her.

_Just a child overcome by dreams of his own strength. Nothing more, nothing less._

He had wanted her, along with the others, to become a part of him, together in an empire that he would lead to glory, a lasting testament to the worth of his life. Such a degradation she could never endure, no more than the others had. Still, as his body stiffened in her arms and his blue eyes lost what luster they had in life, he had meant well. He had cared for her. He had loved her._As if that had made any difference at all._

His final kiss had been one of death, and the one that had the right to his dying breathe was her carried his broken body to the edge of the river, wrapped in the sheets that now served as his shroud. There was silence as she prepared his pyre, movements steady as she placed him upon the boughs. It was as if the land held its breath as the shift in power passed.

Her features were calm and impassive as the flames began to dance along the edges of the corpse, deflty making their way across the body. At last, she watched him burn on top of a river that brought life to her people, watching until the last of the pyre broke off and sank into the river's depths. Looking out from where she stood towards the setting sun, she waited a few more minutes before withdrawing from the bank, collecting her peace.

Instead of returning to the house, stoic in its lonely silence, she made her way into the city. Night may be making its way across the sky, but that meant little in this day and age when the setting of the sun no longer controlled when people retired, as the gods of the past made way for those of the future.

She was no longer confined to a house or palace, no longer a prisoner within her own lands. The cities were her own, every person within them hers and hers alone. There was no need to confine herself when her people were in need of their goddess...

He was the first to have encroached upon her sovereignty, but he would not be the last. There would be others, foolish enough to trespass upon her land and claim her as their would be more battles, and in the end they would share the same fate that he met.

_As how it should be._

_Besides, there was much work to be done, and sleep would be forsaken as she watched the rebirth of her empire._

* * *

**Historical Note: **With the time frames, the first coincides with the emergence of the Indus Valley Civilization, the second with the Aryan invasion, and the last with the emergence of the Maurya Empire. Aryan invaders came into South Asia from around present day Iran, and pretty much set up the ruling class in India that would persist long after new empires rose in the who fled the early invaders were the native Dravidian population, who went farther south into India and into Sri Lanka, which didn't come under Aryan/Sinhalese rule until around the 5th century, well into the twilight of the Aryan Empire.

The village/city that I mention is Delhi, which is in between the Ganges and Indus rivers (being a part of the Indus River Valley). The river mentioned is the Yamuna River, which connects to the Ganges, the lifeblood of India. The Maurya Empire is essentially India's empire, the first 'native' one to emerge [the predecessor empire, while not being named the 'Aryan Empire', was indeed created by the Aryan invaders]. It's the first time the Indian subcontinent (let alone the rest of South Asia) had been united under one [native] ruler. 'Rākha' means 'ash/ashes'.

**Author's Notes: **This chapter revolves around India and Aryan, though is a small references to Pakistan. There is also a tiny reference to Sri Lanka, though of course none of them would be going by those names at this point of time ['Pakistan' and 'Sri Lanka' don't appear on political maps until the 20th century].


	2. Printemps Fleuri

**Everlasting Night**

**Title:** Prelude to Conflict  
**Chapter 2:** Printemps Fleuri  
**Characters:** France, with some England; minor Scotland, Ireland, and Wales.  
**Rating:** PG-13.  
**Summary:** France meeting the family of the United Kingdom, before it was a kingdom and before they could be called a family.

_Southern coast of former Britannia, 690 AD_

He was beginning to like coming across the straits in the north.

Spring had finally decided to grace this land with its joyous presence, and the sun-kissed breeze caressed his cheek like a gentle lover. Yes, it was colder here, and much farther away from his core than he liked, but it was nice there. Beautiful.

_Peaceful._

In the south it was warm, yes, and it was also beautiful, but his older sister was there. Even before the old man's death, he had been reluctant to share her company; now, only his dignity and inherit grace kept him from fleeing her presence whenever they crossed paths.

Normally, a beautiful woman was not someone to run away from: Francis personally believed that the more beauty you could add to your life (or be inside of), the better. And Reina, above all, was beautiful. Much more lovely than their younger sister, whose sweet, gentle nature was far outshined by her sister's harder beauty.

_But still…_

There was something he could not quite grasp about his sister. Whether it was something that came to pass when he was not looking or just some inner anomaly within her, he didn't know. As long as he was able to keep away from her, he didn't have to care. Thus, leading up to where he was now...

It was on one of his early visits, some 100 years ago, that he first saw the boy. There were more of them, he knew that now, but the boy had been the one he'd seen first. He was a tiny, dirty, grubby little thing then; he was still a stunted, grubby little boy now. How so much filth could cling to one person Francis could not comprehend, nor wanted to.

On the first time, the boy had caught him looking at him, and with a squawk had run off into the forests without Francis being able to get a word in. Francis had not bothered to follow; nonetheless, he kept coming back over the years, and started to feel a little sentimental about it all. 'What can I say, it must be fate' he muses to himself, watching the pleasing scene before him.

Now, the little boy was roving around the hillscape, collecting bundles of newly blossomed flowers in his grubby little fists. The vigor used in collecting the jonquilles by the boy brought a smile to Francis' lips. He was humming too, an unfamiliar little tune that was punctuated with his petite laugh. It was sort of sweet, in a childish sort of way, to see something so trivial bring such joy to another. He was still far away enough to be out of the boy's line of sight, and apparently the boy wasn't aware enough of himself to sense the presence of other of his kind: all the better for Francis.

He didn't have much time to linger on his superiority: he sensed her just a few seconds before he heard her voice split through the peaceful knoll. His first reaction was to stiffen; almost as soon as he did, he tried to force himself to relax. This little one wasn't a threat to him, that was for sure. Being barely more than an infant herself, she wouldn't have been able to do him any more harm than the boy could. Just another infant nation learning the limits of their strength in a world that had no patience for them. Nothing he hadn't seen before.

It was just that, with this one, she rarely traveled _alone._

She came running up to the boy, her raucous laughter a coarse contrast to the boy's lighter timbre. The girl's bright, crimson-laced hair bounced around her shoulders as she came up to him, startling the boy. He dropped some of the flowers he had been holding, his little head ducking down as he tried to catch them. Snatching a handful of the fallen blossoms, she danced a circle around the boy, calling out to him in her strange, appealing tongue. Her tone was playful now, and an uncertain smile slowly edged its way onto the boy's face as a bolder one adorned the girl's.

Francis felt a sliver of dread entering his heart as she kept frolicking about, her words still sweet as she drew closer to the boy. Gaining some courage, the boy ventured a few words out to her as well; it seemed that for once his shyness had abated. As she danced about him, she reached out towards him, her fingers beckoning him towards her. With a sudden conviction, the remaining flowers in his hand were thrust out towards her, a bright blush covering his face that was in sharp contrast with his straw colored locks. She clapped her hands in delight before claiming them, twirling about as she laughed more words in her strange tongue. With the boy acting this cute, this was almost sweet to watch. Almost.

_1...2...no, it's three of them. But for what?_

The boy was reaching out towards her when she struck. Her arm snapped out before his can even extend, lashing out with a speed Francis wouldn't have expected in a child. Immediately, four angry scratches appear on his cheek before he can even register what happened. Francis starts, but before he can call out to the boy she strikes again. Shock had kept the boy still, and this time her aim had been for his eyes.

Crying out, his tiny hands come up to his face, a feeble attempt to shield himself from the onslaught that had come upon him. She's still laughing as he begins to wail, her laughter rising into a shriek as she mocks his cowering form. Finally mobilized, Francis starts running towards the two, desperate to keep her from taking out the boy's eyes. Sensing rather than seeing him, she takes off before Francis gets too close, still prancing and cawing as if pleased with herself.

He finally reaches the sobbing boy, the child too taken in his misery to realize the other's presence. Dragging down the sleeve of his robe, he attempts to pry the boy's fingers from his face, trying to take in the damage. The boy begins to panic as he feels the foreign hands on his face, but Francis' hands are too strong and the boy can't stop crying.

_'It's not too bad,'_ Francis thinks as he cleans up the bloodied face with his sleeve. Twin sets of angry scratches mar the boy's cheeks, blood steadily oozing out a particularly deep one high up on his left cheek. A less than half a digit higher, and she would have cut through the eye. The boy's tears are running in through the blood, further ruining Francis' sleeve but making it easier to clean the boy's face. He draws the shuddering frame closer towards him, the boy too lost in his grief to move away, and finally looks up after the girl.

She's all the way down the meadow now, her delighted shrieks still in the air. They're here now as well, finally out in the open after the deed had been done. Her tresses trail after her as she makes her way towards the older one, arms reaching out towards him as his extends towards her. She all but leaps in his waiting grasp, covering his face with kisses as he murmurs silken words into her ear. The other one, a boy slightly older than the girl, stands dourly by the elder, out of place by the exultant pair. His dark hair comes down almost over his eyes, shielding him from having to meet Francis' gaze. The other is less reserved with is attention, and Francis can feel his eyes on him before he raises his own.

The young man's gaunt, pallid form stands out in the bright meadow, a malicious smirk gracing his lips as he holds onto the girl. His lips form the parody of a smile: the amusement on them never reach his eyes. The cold, ashen gaze leers over him, their message glaringly clear.

_Don't interfere._

Satisfied with their work, the pale one turns away, the little girl still gleefully chattering at what she had done. The other boy stands there alone for a moment before turning away, trailing after the two in solemn silence. Francis looks away from the ashen blond head as it leaves his line of sight and look back towards the little boy in his arms. The worst of the boy's howling is over, his tiny fists rubbing against his eyes in an effort to blot out the tears that won't stop falling. Resigned to the fact that his favorite over robe was ruined, Francis pulled down his other sleeve, wiping the boy's face despite the child's now indigent protests. The child made a half hearted attempt to wriggle out of his grasp before he pulled the boy closer.

_'Don't interfere,' huh?_

This wasn't his fight. He had no vested stake on this dirty little island, nor any of the people on it. Whether they (or this nation) lived or died wasn't his concern; his father had taught him that the weak existed only feed the strong, and to try and defy that truth would just lead to an early [and well-deserved] grave. Rome certainly hadn't tried to spare anyone in his lifetime, and probably approved of his own death in the moments before Germania's sword had bitten down upon his neck. Yes, it would be better to just leave the boy here, to let him run off again into the woods where he would be safe.

_Until the others come looking for him again._

He really didn't need this. Reina was bad enough, and the nations in the east had already been stirring up enough trouble to weigh heavily on his mind. The world wouldn't end just because a nation stopped existing, or because an empire had fallen. Rome had been strong, and in the end all the good he did was feed the worms that had feasted on his corpse. All of the nations that had been conquered and slaughtered in the name of his father's empire, whose deaths interfered not with the rising of the sun or the coming of the tides. No, it would not matter what happened here. He can return home with his heart at peace.

_But the boy would still die…_

His father would be proud of him to leave the child alone here. That's probably why it felt so easy to lift the boy up into his arms, muttering soothing words as he ran a hand through the boy's scruffy mane. The child was hiccupping now, the tears mostly gone though his grief remained on his face. Francis kept whispering comfort to the boy, not caring that the child didn't understand but pleased that the boys attempts at escape had abated.

With a firm hold on the child, Francis made his way back south towards the shore. Taking the child home may not be the best of ideas at this point, but he would be keeping an eye out for the boy for the time being.

_Qui vivra verra._

* * *

**Historical Notes:** This takes place after the fall of Rome [roughly 476 AD], and before the Norman Conquest [1066 AD]. Britannia, like Gaul [France] and Hispania [España], had gradually been drifting away from the Roman Empire, and when Rome fell in 476 AD, it only marked the climax to an already progressing event.

A digit is an old Roman measurement. It is equal to about ¾ of an inch or 18.5 mm. The chapter title is 'Springtime with Flowers'. The flowers, daffodils, bloom in the early spring in England, and jonquilles is the French word for daffodils. They were brought into Britain by the Roman invaders. 'Britannia' was the name given to southern England by the Romans. The final line can be translated into 'What will be, will be'.

**Author's Notes:** The two sisters who France mentions are España and Portugal. I refer to this incarnation as 'España' instead of 'Spain', because I refer to her son as 'Spain'. He's kind of the successor state, but his mother is still alive during the future/present day time period.

**France** - Francis, eldest son of Rome.  
**España** - Reina, eldest child of Rome.  
**Portugal** - Younger sister of France and España.

**Ireland** - Youngest of the Celts, the little red-haired girl. Older than England, but not by much.  
**England** - The little blond-haired boy. England isn't quite as Celtic as the rest: he has a lot of Roman and Germanic influences in his direct ancestry, unlike the others (whose people fled to the North and West with the invasions).  
**Wales** - Older than England or Ireland, younger than Scotland. The dour, brown haired boy.  
**Scotland** - Eldest of the Celtic family. Pale, ashen blond hair, proud, and baleful towards England.


	3. Meç Eġṙen

**20100621 Edit:** Completed while watching 'Lawrence of Arabia' and 'Troy', which ran about the same length of time I took revamping this. Here's the new and improved Meç Eġṙen, now 10% more Turk friendly! [+/-10% margin of error] Also, historical notes are longer, and just because it is summer doesn't mean you shouldn't keep learning things.

**

* * *

****Everlasting Night **

**Title: **Prelude to Conflict  
**Chapter 3:**_Meç Eġ__ṙ__en  
_**Characters:** The Ottoman Empire; minor Persia, Ancient Egypt/Kemet, Egypt, and Turkey.  
**Rating:** PG-13 [A little bit of described violence.]  
**Summary: **The Ottoman Empire reflects in his twilight hour as he plans a legacy to leave.

_Constantinople, November 28th, 1914 _

He can hear the second hand of the clock ticking, making its perpetual progression around the clock face with the mindless diligence that machines held. Another minute ticks off, and the minute hand shifts, the sound marking the finality of the departing minute. One of the ice cubes within his scotch cracks, and in the silence of the room each sound offends his ear as if they were a rifle shot.

His eye's are closed, and his next breath is labored in his chest.

_He knew this would be his final war. _

The ice cubes clinked against the sides of his glass as he flicked his wrist, deftly swishing its contents around the half-emptied tumbler. It was late in the afternoon, dangerously close to dusk as he leaned back in his chair, debating whether or not to raise the glass to his lips before bringing his arm up, swallowing the last of the liquor as it burned down his throat. It was against the laws of these lands, to drink this liquid poison, but the poison dulled his aches, and besides, the law was of _men: _it had no hold over him.

What use were men to him anyways?

…_and what use was he to them?_

He brushes the thought aside, and follows it with another sip.

He had been in council with the Sultan and his advisers for the past ten hours, going over strategy over strategy as they were debating how best to reorganize their army. It was a slow, tedious process that had been dragged out over the past week as each day was wasted as the one before it: a council of old, tired men who hadn't seen action on the battlefield since the turn of the last century. He was coming more and more to dread these meetings.

He didn't know why he bothered to meet with them anymore, neither the advisors nor their wizened sultan. It was the _Parliament _that held any of the real power nowadays, and they seemed content on debating politics in circles as the Allied army closed in on him. _'As long as it is what the __**people **__want.' _He smirks self-indulgently, wishing once again that he had had each and every one of those men publicly hanged when they first proposed sharing power.

It had always worked so well in the past, he shouldn't have strayed from the path that had brought him to glory.

_He shouldn't have, but time changes a man…_

Steadying himself with one hand, he hoists himself up, pulling himself up into a standing position with more difficulty than he was comfortable admitting. It seemed that moving around was getting much harder these past few decades, his once sinuous movements becoming rusted with age. Besides, he had already dismissed the girl for the day: he would have to serve himself if he wanted another drink.

_'Just when she could have made herself useful too…'_

He thinks with another smirk. Seven arduous steps brought him over to the table where he could refill his glass, and another agonizing nine brought him over to the window. He had been sitting all day (_as if he was as worthless as his generals_), and his back was able to take it less and less. Dusky light enters the room as he brushes the heavy curtains aside, letting in the last of the sun's sickly rays as it slowly sinks into the horizon.

The Young Turks had elicited his interest for a while, full of words of promises and force that could actually move his country out of its stupor, but even they did little to distract him from his plight. If it was only just this war, it wouldn't have been such a burden upon his mind. Wars came and went, weeding out the weak and allowing the strong to rebuild in the ashes. He knew that. He had _been _the force that had leveled kingdoms to the ground, and had built out of those ashes as others had before him.

It was more than just this war, more than just a royal spat in Europe. What was wrong in his country was what bothered him.

His railways were owned by the Krauts, his debt controlled by those in the West, who found ways to poison men within their countries as their greed weakened his foundation. All of them reaching into his Empire, taking what had been rightfully his as they gorged themselves upon his land. Libya was gone. Egypt as well. For all the girl's declarations of loyalty and adoration in her youth, she had fled once the British troops had closed in upon his men.

She wasn't worth fighting for anyways.

As long as she had left the child, he had no need for her anymore.

Greece, Bulgaria, Montenegro, Bosnia, all of them and more had betrayed him. They all gave themselves the names that they had always called themselves in private, forming the words in the years they had spent under him. Spiting him. Hating him.

And they were all the same, every last one of them. Every last one of them was as much a traitor to the Empire and himself as the last. It didn't matter whose mother was whom anymore, they had betrayed their bloodlines when they sought treacherous hands for help.

If it wasn't the Russians egging them on it was the British, or another one of the Western heretics whose religion was that of wealth. He took another swallow of his drink, and as it burns he wonders if they would be trying this hard to kill him if his people were Christian likes theirs, or as 'cultured' and 'refined' as the had long claimed theirs to be. It had been enough reason during their Crusades, he supposed they had no need to change the wording on his death warrant.

Then again, they've been busy killing each other for the better part of two thousand years, so he lets the idea slide out of his mind. Unfortunately, a different one slides in right after the other, this one not speculation but cold, hard fact. _'I am old.'_

He was never old in his memories, when he was surrounded by those far older than any mind of man could conceive. But that was then, and those mighty empires have long since crumbled when their nation fell.

_'I am dying.'_

He had no need of a doctor to tell him that, with the signs before him everyday. Even when he closed his eyes, he can hear the thudding of his heart, the valves seeming strained with each beat that they made. His bones felt brittle, his arms and legs feeling leaden as if he was some relic of the past that would soon be returned to its proper place.

_'And I am going to die…'_

…_and soon. _

For their kind, 'soon' might be a couple decades, or even in excess of a hundred years; then again, it could mean a few days, or even within a moment if fate would have been pleased with such. He didn't want his thoughts focusing on the future like this, torturing himself with the ghosts of what could be when he had more pressing matters to attend to (like trying to make it through this war without ceding anymore land). It would be nice, but he was getting old, and even he could not always control the phantasms of his own mind, anymore than a man can control his bitter dreams.

Instead, he let his mind turn towards the past, knowing the nightmares he would remember but unable to stop them.

_600 years…_

_600 years, of fighting and backstabbing and blood as an Empire, and another 3000 years of life before that, at least as far as he could remember. For all he knew, it could have been 10,000 more. In the beginning it had been nothing but wandering in the desert, without men or land to call his own as each step marked another moment in his life. When he had finally found purpose, finally found a people who were his and a land that he would bring himself to call his own, it was not much better._

_Then, it had been but a never-ending struggle to survive in between the giants of the era, 3,000 years of having to watch those whores' backs as they ruled and conquered the lands that were, by all rights, his own. He grew to strength in the ruins of the Near East, after the strongest had been slaughtered by the Roman beasts. _

_After Kemet… _

…_Persia…_

As Rome's empire had collapsed in upon himself, Baris had been inducted into service under the Caliphate. The man had been good, the man had fair, strong, but hopelessly naïve. Dreams of the protection of honor and his god lead his path instead of instinct, and Baris couldn't stand such weakness in a man. Without instinct, nations were little more than empty shells, dragged whichever way their rulers saw fit.

No human had the right to subjugate their kind, and no king of his had ever lived to make the same mistake twice. He had tried to explain it to Rahman, eager to expose to him the error of his ways. He may not have liked the man, but it was worse to watch him waste his strength, so he tried, though it was all in vain: the fool had cast the truth aside, letting himself be ruled by morality and by man. If anything, it was an act of mercy finally killing the man.

The boy Byzantine had been next.

Another child too strong for his own good and without the wisdom to back it up, Justinian had the delusion of rebuilding his father's empire to lead him along his way. In addition, the outrage he saw against his sister had yet to be resolved, allowing the boy's emotions and rage to cloud his judgment on the battlefield. It had been fun toying with the infant, tearing apart his kingdom bit by bit when Rahman was still alive, and continuing afterwards when the task had fallen solely upon him.

Remembering the look of anguish and despair upon the boy's face in the moments before Baris' scimitar was thrust into his chest brought a smile to his lips. That had been a good memory, one he enjoyed remembering since it had brought so much anguish into the west.

His smile fades a bit. _'There where so few good ones.'_ It was after then that he was finally able to claim the land that always had rightfully been his, ready to bring forth his empire onto the world.

But before that, he had failed for the second time in his life.

_Perhaps one failure seems lonely, if not followed by another…_

He had not seen her for centuries, though he knew she had still been alive. Her armies still fought in battles across the region, though their war goddess was long since gone from the front, ever since the last time she had stood beside another. Elaheh had vanished from his part of the world since the death of her sister, and had avoided the slaughter that had crushed the Mediterranean world under Roman rule.

She had fled back east with her child as her mate met the same fate as her sister at the end of Rome's sword, marking the end of the Greek and Egyptian Empires. Baris had been concerned to a point, but he hadn't really cared, with his then present grief over Kemet and desire to create his kingdom far overshadowing any thoughts of what would become of the other.

He had let her run, and she had lived. Persia was to be allowed to live and prosper and in due time he would have her if he had to break her neck to do it. It was just the way it should be, as he imagined in his mind for over two thousand years. Even if Kemet was no longer a part of it, it was a dream that would be brought to life.

_And he had been close, so close… _

After 3,000 years of killing and fighting, he was just 100 years too late...

His grip tightened on his glass, ignoring how the edges began to cut painfully into his palm as his gaze hardens.

He remembers the day he walked into that ravaged city in ways he wished he could forget, forever a prisoner to that day…

He had been with Misr as the time of the attack. For some reason, he had been feeling sentimental, and instead of just laying with her daughter he wanted to be closer to Kemet, wanted to be inside of her lands [the lands that would always be hers and never her daughter's] once again as he had when he was still a boy. He had been returning back east when the first reports of the invasion had reached him. The news hadn't meant much to him at first, constant assaults and uprisings being an expected part of life in the region.

That had been nothing new.

But as more reports began trickling west, he began to feel uneasy. There wasn't any reason to be worried, and should there be danger he could always fall back into Kemet's old lands, reorganizing and regrouping until he could find a better way to attack.

Still….

He needed to know for sure, that what had 'happened' in the east had truly come to past. It couldn't, of course, but he needed to be sure. He needed to find her, and who said it was not a fine time to make true to his promise and acquire her? He would finally be done with this child, and his duty to Naqada would be fulfilled.

With mixed thoughts in mind, he headed for Neyshābūr. He didn't know what to expect.

After weeks of traveling, he finally reached the city, with nothing but two meager platoons of troops and the girl along with him. He had been to abandoned cities before, exploring the ruins that littered along the edge of every great empire that had come and passed with a watchful eyes. There had always been something to learn in such places, where the scent of death lingered even centuries after the corpses had turned to dust.

He had not been prepared for this.

There was nothing left alive in the city. Not even the vultures came near.

Any animal that couldn't be stolen or consumed had been killed, the corpses of the cattle and horses and other livestock lining the outer gate in mounds higher than his chest. Most of the bodies had already long since caved in, but the air still reeked of putrid decay.

The girl had covered her face with her veils, clutching them in front of her mouth as if she could protect herself from the smell and the horrors before her. He could tell that she was already about to cry, and had ordered that she stay outside the city with a guard, but she had insisted that she stay near him. He was actually somewhat relieved that she stayed, even though her presence usually annoyed him: he didn't want to face what was inside by himself.

_And what was… _

He took another long drag from his liquor; even with the separation of over six hundred years, he still felt as if he needed liquid courage to let him finish what these horrible thoughts had started.

Walking inside, there was only the sound of the sand whispering across the streets as their footsteps echoed hollowly in the graven silence. He wished he hadn't entered, but the sights would not be un-seen. He couldn't go a dozen paces without passing another mound of skulls, the ghastly pyramids lining the street as he made his way towards the square. Each one he passed seemed larger than the last, as if trying to highlight that what lay at its core was so far beyond the scope of what he had already seen. Where the rest of the bodies were, he couldn't tell; probably piled somewhere behind the square, as if the invaders had thought they would take away from the image the skulls were meant to convey.

_And who was this message for? Not him, but…who?_

Some of the skulls still had flesh attached to them, the meat long since dried out in the arid desert air. Most were completely bare, the bone already bleached to a sickening yellowed white after weeks spent under the unforgiving sun. Misr hovered nearer towards him, desperate for comfort but knowing he didn't want her touching him, sating her need just by walking behind him. She knew why they had come so far into the East, and whom he had come for.

It was in the square, at the crest of the hill that the city had been built around, that he found what had been left behind for the desert to reclaim as it wished. There was a body there, splayed out in the middle of the square, the first one intact that he had seen since he had entered the dead city. As he approached it, he could feel a sort of disturbance, as if there was a ringing in the air that he could feel but not hear. Getting closer, he realized that this body wasn't human.

_And that it was still alive. _

He made his way faster towards the prostrated form, the faintest rasps of breathe already being picked up by his sharp ears. He came closer, and he doesn't know if its relief or worry that crosses his mind first when he realizes that it's a boy. Upon closer inspection, he can see why the boy was lying there: two swords, almost to the hilt, had been run through both of his palms, his hands pinned by the sides of his head. There are dark, dried puddles of blood around each impaled hand, the flesh being cut through from the center of his palms to the top of his wrists.

The boy hadn't even bothered to look at him when he approached, unable to spare his strength with what that effort would entail. His features were dark, but his eyes a strange, milky brown. Forced to stare up at the sun for so many weeks had probably gone a long way in blinding the boy for good.

He kneeled down beside him and tested the hilts, pulling gently upon one to see how well into the earth it was. The land up here was harder, more compact than the loose sands that spread beyond the outer gates. He'd have to rip the boy's hands open even more to free them, but that was a inconsequential at the moment. He called for another soldier to aid him, and after a three-count had pulled both swords out at once.

The boy had screamed, his wasted vocal cords emitting a brittle rasping sound that was like the wind violently casting the sand against a wall in the desert. Still, he was free, and Baris didn't have time to waste babysitting the boy. He called the girl over to tend to him, and she meekly obeyed, gently fawning over the boy as he kept trying to speak, his body still too weak to even turn his head towards her. It seemed like an awful waste, to pass through the streets with all of the skulls piled high throughout the town.

This boy couldn't have been it.

This couldn't be the extent of the strength of whatever force had descended upon this land.

He's pulled from his thought as the girl calls out his name, omitting any honorifics in her haste as she asks him to hurry. Unperturbed by her gall, he turns back to find her head hovering over the boy's, her right ear over his mouth. He asks her what she could want, but she doesn't answer; he's about to walk away before her head turns towards him, her face ashen with its frozen features.

Her head is facing towards him, but her eyes are not: even as her lips try to make words, her lips unconsciously parting and closing, a look of horror upon her face as her eyes gaze above him. Unsettled, he turns around, trying to find what was in her and the boy's line of sight that could have bothered her so much as to cry out to him.

_And then he sees. _

There had been a mosque in the center of the city, as the new religion had made its way across these lands, a simple but beautiful thing in a desert where beauty was scarce. Most of the building had been destroyed, its walls painted with violent swatches of blood as were most buildings throughout the city.

But what caught his eye was not the walls below, but the minaret that adorned the top, the highest point that remained in the skyline. He doesn't realize how he could have missed this, but now he can't look away, a prisoner to the sight before him that suddenly eclipses everything else that he had seen since he had entered this forsaken place. At the top of the spire, there's something attached to it, something round but with streamers attached to it.

_But its not streamers that are trailing in the delicate wind, and though its far away he can't help but notice that not all of the skin is yet gone. He can't help but stare as the bleached sections of skull gleam out at him, or how the eyeless sockets seem to be able to stare even though they are so far away from everything in this life. The once auburn tresses, now bleached like the bones, still flutters around the skull. And he knows._

He knows and he wishes he didn't.

_Baris has never seen the boy before, but he knows who he is. He knows who he is as surely as he knows whose skull is up there upon a pike. For all of his newfound strength, he's left standing there, too horrified to move and too numb as yet to grieve. He can only stand there, and feel a part of himself he didn't know he had before fade away, leaving emptiness in its forgotten place._

He let a breath he didn't know he was holding, placing a hand upon the window frame to steady himself as he tried to disengage from his memories. And still, he was angry.

All of this, the pain and the bloodshed and the _fear_ that she must have felt in the hours leading up to her death as her city was sieged, and he had felt _nothing_, just like he had felt nothing when Naqada had been killed. He didn't understand he why that was, knowing what he knew about their kind now. The sister's minds had been linked together, he knew, a practice that those who were close to one another could perform. It was a sort of sigil, binding themselves together as they grew first into nations, and then nations, before finally becoming Gods. It allowed them to share their thoughts and remain on the borders on each other minds even when they were far apart, in both times of peace and war.

It was what made Persia flee when her sister was killed, avoiding the trap her mate had walked into.

He had never felt their minds, he had never touched the thoughts of any other, and he _hated _them for that. From the beginning, they had barely acknowledged him, the two of them brushing him off as an annoyance that would die off sooner rather than later. He had not even been acknowledged as a threat, not in the time when the three great empires still controlled the known world, where Rome had yet to be born.

It was that isolation he had been fighting against from the start, a determination born from bitter despair to make them a part of himself if he could be a part of them in no other way. With both of them dead, there wasn't any need to try anymore. What was left for him, to make of his life?

_But…_

The emptiness could be filled if it was not able to be ignored.

_The void would be filled with blood instead. _

He had no regrets with what he had done. He had none then, at the apogee of his might, and he had none now, as the sun set upon his empire. He only did what was necessary as an empire, fulfilling his duty as a nation as his people fulfilled their own by fighting and dying for him on the battlefield. They deserved greatness just as much as he did, and he would have it if there was nothing else left to him in this world.

Kemet_._

_Dead. _

_Persia._

_Dead. _

The good Caliphate, the philosopher Greece, the child Byzantine, even that corrupted Roman, all dead. Every ancient who had reigned across the lands that made up his world as a child were gone.

Everyone, except for him.

What had happened to the others as they died? Is that when they finally felt regret, repenting the acts that had brought them such greatness in their lives and in the lives of countless generations of their men? Or was it their first understanding of fear, depriving them of their pride in their final moments as their lives were ripped out from their bodies?

Where would they go?

He may have been younger than the whores, but he had lived long before the advent of Christianity and Islam that were born out of the ancient Judaic teachings. His people could think what they want, but he could not afford to delude himself as such. Both Persia and Kemet had been born long before their people had pantheons to worship, when the land had no name and the only gods where that of the desert and the sea. The Caliphate, for all his piety and devotion, had converted later in life, allowing himself to be deceived by the false comforts and ideologues of the gods of man.

At least Rome had never claimed to be pious, coveting only gold and bloodshed as his masses worshipped their false idols in the streets.

Was there nothing out there for them when their empires died, when the last of their people's pride had been vanquished from the earth? Was it just a void that they disappeared into, or was there an afterlife for them, if not one for man? Would there be peace for their weary, bloodstained minds? Or, was there a Hell for their kind, and if so…

…_were Naqada and Elaheh waiting for him there? _

All the people and lands he had conquered, all those he had once ruled over, how many of them were left? His enemies in the north and east had aided the treacherous Greek and Serb against him, robbing him of half of his remaining land. Though an empire, he was alone now, with no one beside him.

Except for one.

_His daughter. _

The one he had demanded from Kemet's bloodline and had received.

His thoughts turn back towards his child, a moue of disgust upon his lips as he turned away from the window. The sun had already fallen beyond the cityscape, amber rays casting their diseased light into the room. _His daughter_. The one Misr had borne for him when she still proved useful, before she had fled from him like everyone else. He hadn't of expected much from the girl: Egypt had been just a cheap imitation of her mother, useless for little more than breeding.

Now, with Misr gone, he was left with their poor excuse for a child. He had been left to rot here, on this dying scrape of land, with who he now knew was to be his successor, waiting for him behind his back. He knew what name the people would call her once he was dead, he had known for a long time. He would not call her by that name, a name that would be given to her not because she earned it but because she would outlive a dying old man.

Until the last of his strength was gone from him, until what was left of his soul was already burning in whatever hell that was waiting for him, he would not call her anything but the name he had given her out of his own free will: _Ankara._

A quiet, nervous, _useless _thing she was. Awkward and lanky, doomed to a towering height inherited by his own massive frame, she lacked any skill for strategy or military maneuvers; also, she had failed to secure any suitors or allies for the empire (even when he had all but forced the Greek to marry her), making her even more of a burden onto him. Useless. Utterly garbage as an heir.

She had but one saving grace: her complete and utter obedience.

_To him, and only him. _

He set his newly emptied glass down, leaving it for one of the servants to put to rights. There was a schedule to keep t, and he would be dining in the great hall in less than half an hour: etiquette forbid that he deviate due to a tired old body. Besides, there would be more of his generals there, as despite the late hour he still held out the hope that there may be something yet he could do to control his fate.

Besides, it would be unseemly for the master to be late if the child was already there, and he would not allow her an opportunity to embarrass him. Opening the door with one arthritic hand, he hastily proceeded down the passageway, painfully stretching his legs with the much needed (and dreaded) exercise. He stopped only for a few minutes in a washroom, examining his tired visage before he presented himself yet again.

The years had done a number on him, not like it would a human but equally as devastating. His hair, once a thick, dark mahogany color, was now dappled with grey, an unpleasant badge of his years that grew slowly each day. His skin was much paler now, a sickly pallid that was a disgrace to his race and of those who had come before him in this part of the world.

The lines along his eyes were deepening, and he could no longer move with the elegance and grace that had once made the battlefield his truest home. Now, here he was, confined to palaces of faded decadence as the future was being determined by a handful of brats, overeager to split the spoils of the world as if they had a right to it.

_If there was a Hell, Rome's and his brood couldn't be burning in it fast enough. _

Moving on, he washed his hands and then his face, careful not to stain his vest or his shirtsleeves as his jacket laid on the counter beside him. The water felt cool on his face, a slight comfort for his aching bones and flesh that found so little these days. Running a hand through his hair, he looks back up towards his reflection to face himself.

_It wasn't her fault. _

He knew that he disgust was unfair, that the child's only sin was her own inherit inferiority (no doubt inherited from her mother) that had been determined at birth. Had things been different, had the fate of his empire not rested on her with the world as it was, perhaps her softness could have tolerated.

_Perhaps. _

Or at least, it could have been ignored: however, he no longer had the luxury of time, and if molding her into the perfect heir could not be done with the time that he had left, he would have to find a different path in securing their future.

_Her future._

Because in the end, the only way he was going to live on was in her, wasn't it?

Drying his hands and pulling his jacket back onto his shoulders, he walks out of the washroom without bothering to check his reflection again. He's already dangerously close to being late, and he would not degrade himself by rushing (nor subject his weakened form to the agony).

Everything would be alright. More than 3,000 years of life, and for what? To die some pissant death at the hands of these infants? To let his kingdom crumble until it became one with the sands of the desert yet again?

No, this had no right to happen.

His hands straightened his collar, and his back follows suit, pulling his shoulders back as prepared to face the masses yet again.

He would make due with her.

_There was no other option._

_

* * *

__February 11th, 1915, Constantinople _

His fingers drummed a hearty pattern onto the papers before him, a hint of a smile lightening his face to match the brightness of his mood.

He was almost besides himself with anticipation.

To think, the answer had been before him all along and he had been too engaged in trying to find it to see it. _'We couldn't see the forest for all of the trees.' _Normally, he didn't care much for Western sayings, nothing but the foolish prattles of Rome's bastard children who thought that they were wise just for having come out of some human woman's cunt, but in this instance he thought it suited the situation perfectly. Perhaps with so many 'trees' now gone, it was easier to see which ones were poisoning the rest of his grove.

It was simple enough: after the treacherous Greek and Bulgarian had betrayed him, stealing away his land as the West had looked on with approval, there had only been a few parasites left eating away at his Empire's might. Only a few, but one in particular had stood out. He wondered how long it had been, since that disgusting peasant boy had started plotting against him.

Loyal to the Czars, that they were, the whole putrid lot of them. How many more of his good people would be forced to die as those dogs were allowed to live, allowed to breed their disgusting kind in HIS cities, as if they had the right…

He shakes his head, his grin spreading wider across his face as it almost seemed to split it. She looks over at him, but says nothing. It's one of her better habits.

He had been wondering what he would do with them, as their demands for recognition had grown into a constant annoyance. Now, with the war, he didn't have to worry about it anymore: it was vital for national security, vital for the protection of the homeland as his soldiers fought in lands far away. With all of Europe's and the world's attention on the war, he wouldn't have to worry about interference: as if they could understand how utterly essential this was for his people, how important it was for all of their futures.

He chuckles to himself, shifting some papers away from him as he reads the next set, marking the report as he finds errors within it. He's not laughing because there's anything funny, not truly, but he just can't help it: it's been happening more and more often, like a guest dropping by without warning or anywhere else to go.

It had been hours since he first arrived in his office, and he was surprised to find that he hadn't tired in the slightest. He felt younger than he had in years, in _decades_, newfound energy coursing through his veins as if he was with the Mamluks again. His daughter was standing silently beside the wall by the door, only moving when ordered to fetch him more coffee (it had been over a week since he had last allowed alcohol into his body) or to deliver a packet to one of his commander's offices that were located in the floor beneath them.

She didn't know anything yet about his plans, and he didn't feel like telling her anyways. Enough orders had already been put in place so that she would not have to know, and since there would be little that she could contribute she wouldn't have to know until it was over. He knew if he ordered her to deliver an open envelope containing orders for one of his aides, it would be delivered unread without a touch of hesitation, as he had trained her since she could walk.

She just went along with whatever he ordered her to do, obedient in ways that her mother never hoped to have been.

Finishing the last of his notes, he seals up the last packet, calling her over with a flick of his wrist. She's so quiet he can barely hear her footsteps, appearing silently by his side as she awaits the document and his new orders. Instead of handing it off to her and sending her on her way, he pauses, and then sharply pulls upon her sleeve in order to bring her down to his level. She relents without contest, obediently settling upon her knees with her back straight, her eyes looking at him for instruction.

_'She looks so little like her mother,'_ he muses, reaching out a hand to settle upon her head. Her hair is long and dark, but unlike Misr's, hers is a deep brown like his own, not black like her mother's. Her eye's are a greenish gray like his own, her long face thin as if unused to comfort.

'_She almost looks like, Ela'__-_but he crushes the thought before he finishes it. It is not the sister of her grandmother that she looks like, but himself that she takes after. Still…

She doesn't move when he touches her, not flinching even though his touches were rare and his anger was frequent. Her eyes still trained upon him, a blank look of beseechment directed at him, silently waiting for him to tell her what to do. His gloved hand slides down her hair towards her cheek, cupping it as he looked upon her silent, earnest face.

_'So little like her mother, yet Kemet's blood still flows through her.' _

And Persia, for the two of them shared their blood and their dreams.

_'I'll make a future for us yet' _

Removing his hand, he passes to her the final packet, no emotion in his face as he waved her off. While there is still some confusion in her eyes, her steps hold no hesitation and she respectively bows towards him, leaving the room as quickly as she is silent. He's left alone there, knowing that his next appointment will come soon as he superficially organizes the papers on his desk.

When the War Minister finally enters the room, 10 minutes later, he waves off the man's bow and cordiality as he always did in private. It irritated him enough to deal with such useless honors when the men who gave them the most were usually the ones who did the least for him. At least this one had a purpose. Pasha makes his way towards his desk, even at this point somewhat in awe of his nation when he came before him.

It was time to finish things off.

"Are the commanders ready, minister?" He uses the man's title, but he has no need to put respect behind it. The man will imagine it anyways.

"Yes, my liege," the man brusquely replies, his own excitement ill-concealed within his voice. "They are awaiting the appointed date, the 25th, when they will carry out their orders are instructed, sir."

Baris nods, not surprised by the man's report, but still pleased at the answer. "And they know not to try and improvise the date, since the, _effectiveness_ of the operation depends on the uniformity of the action?" He waves his hand in front of him, returning it back before him as his elbows rested against his desk.

"I don't need one of them going off half-cocked and giving the others warning. I don't need your men sabotaging me at this point."

"They know, my nation, they do. I ensured that each of the unit commanders were _handpicked _by myself for their loyalty and excellence, not to mention their expertise in the field, and they will not stray from their orders, not even in the face of Armageddon."

The man's voice held the tiniest hint of petulant pride, as if Baris had questioned the man's personal loyalty instead. It was annoying, for this little man to think that he cared about his pride or his petty needs. Baris picks up a fountain pen before him on the desk, and twirls it in his hand, letting the pointed tip come to rest against the pad of his thumb.

He presses down, and when he feels the skin puncture, he thinks about how efficiently this pen would gouge a hole in Pasha's neck, and freely the blood would course down his bloated frame as he bleed to death in front of him. A ghost of a smile flickers unbiddenly upon his lips, and he lets it edge out on the corners of his lips. There'd be time to kill him later, if he so desired: for now, it was better to focus on the main issue at hand.

He can always purge his command force later. The Armenians came first.

"My liege?" The man interrupts his thoughts, and as he turns his full gaze upon him the man, the minister seems to shrink in upon himself for a moment. When it passes, he tries to push up his shoulders as if he had never weakened in front of his nation.

"Yes, my dear minister, do speak up." A dog could probably perform this man's task better than him. If anything, it would be less needy for attention and praise.

"If I may ask, my liege, what will you have us do if the Armenian troops rebel?"

"When are you concerned that this will happen?"

"I mean, before the plan comes to full fruition." The man fidgets a bit, and Baris knows that he will kill him as soon as his use was done. "What if they seek shelter in one of their communities and create an armed defense in there? If we have trouble with the troops or the civilians, what should we do?"

'_Shouldn't all of these precautions avoid all of this to begin with?' _The man's complaints are annoying, but the less question hanging in his simple mind will only aid in the execution of his plans.

'_Still, how stupid can this man be?'_

He can feel his smirk returning, and before he is fully aware of it he finds himself starting to chuckle. He does this as the minister continues on with his concerns, and once the look of confusion begins to melt away to fear on the man's face, Baris doesn't even pretend not to be amused. His stifled laughter full blown when the man tentatively finishes, standing both alarmed and more than little embarrassed at the man waits for an answer, afraid to ask anything before his nation speaks.

The nation's laughter, while neither rambunctious or crude, has a strange, _off _quality to it. He's laughing, but his eyes are wide open and searching, and the minister finds himself looking away at the papers on the desk rather than look into those eyes. He has always been afraid of this man whom he is so in awe of.

Calming himself, Baris gives out a wide, reassuring smile to the man, settling a hand against his chest. "Forgive me for my rudeness, but you must admit the humor in such a unnecessary question. And if you must make a reference to that group, please find a more appropriate name than that one. I'm sure '_filth_' or '_parasites' _will do is you wish to avoid more profane words, my good man. "

Raising from his desk, this time he needs no help as he makes his way to his feet, his back and knees feeling as fresh as they did in the time of the Caliphate. It's wonderful to feel this alive again, and he isn't going to put this to waste, not for his enemies and not for this man. "It's the same answer as to what we are expected to accomplish after all of this unpleasantness is over."

"Whether there is any trouble now or not is not the point. With this filth, there is only one thing we need to focus on." He turns back to the minister, his hands clasped behind his back as his smiles widens upon his face.

_"Kill them all."_

* * *

**Historical Notes**: '_Meç Eg_ṙ_en' _is Armenian for the '_Great Calamity'_, the Armenian Genocide. It took place in the twilight of the Ottoman Empire, roughly between the years of 1915 and 1919. Up to 1.5 million Armenians are believed to have been killed by the Ottoman Empire's 'ethnic cleansing' effort. Armenians were depicted as allies to the enemies of the Empire, aiding Czarist Russia whom was the sworn enemy of the Ottoman Empire.

It was the systematic and deliberate annihilation of the Armenian population within the Empire, spearheaded by several heads of the Parliamentary government and the military. It consisted of the destruction of Armenian communities, deportation, forced death marches, starvation, deprivation of shelter, mass shootings, and mass burnings. Also, other methods of killing were: injecting children with lethal doses of morphine, injecting Armenians who were being deported with typhus, mass drownings of women and children (putting them out to sea and throwing them overboard or capsizing the boats), all horrific acts of brutality. To this day, the Turkish government refuses to acknowledge the state-sponsored massacre of Armenians, denying that genocide was committed by the Ottoman Empire. At the present date, only the Republic of Turkey and Azerbaijan refuse to acknowledge that these events occurred, and it is expectantly a very sensitive subject within Turkey.

Of course, this is not to say that other minority groups were targeted, nor that the whole of the Turkish population (let alone the entire Ottoman government) aided or approved of what happened. It was a national tragedy for millions, one that was one of the main inspirations for the Nazi Holocaust that would follow in the next World War.

At it's peak, the Ottoman Empire covered land from the western edge of the Mediterranean to Iraq, from the southern regions of Bulgaria to the edge of present day Somalia. There had been a lot of social and political strife within the empire since the previous century, and this added to the crushing defeat in WWI lead to the dissolution of the Empire. The Ottoman Empire was an autocratic, constitutional monarchy at this point in time, created after a rebellion lead by the Young Turks who sought to distribute the power within the Empire.

Enver Pasha was the War Minister during WWI in the Empire. He had ordered the de-armament of Armenian troops within the Ottoman Army on February 25th of 1915, under the pretense of using them for labor gangs so they could not collaborate with Czarist Russia. In reality was one of the first steps in preparing for the upcoming genocide. These Armenian battalions would be executed as the genocide was fully put into action. Imperial Russia and the United States were the most active in aiding the Armenian people during this tragic period of their history

The Muslim Caliphates, which were powerful between 632 to 1258 AD, weren't so much one unified empire but a collection of Caliphs and their kingdoms. There was rivalry and conversely cooperation between the different Caliph dynasties, which would spread Islam from the Mediterranean to Southern Asia.. They emerged from what is present day Saudi Arabia, and their reach spread from Northwest India/Pakistan to Morocco, and even extended into the Iberian Peninsula (Spain and Portugal) and Georgia.

They were at constant war with the Western powers in Europe and the Byzantine Empire, and their control of the Christian (and Jewish and Islamic) holy lands led to the Christian Crusades, which were fueled by religious fervor and greed.

The Muslim Caliphates lasted from 632 to roughly 1258 AD (though their peak ended with the fall of the Umayyad Dynasty in 1032), wiped out by the invading Mongol hordes. The Byzantine Empire fell on May 29th, 1453 AD, when Constantinople was overtaken by the Ottoman Empire, which had emerged as a force to be reckoned with after aiding in the fall of the Arab Caliphs.

The Persian Empire, one of the largest and mightiest of the ancient world, was **devastated **after the Mongol invasions between 1219 and 1255 AD. This was a part of the utterly massive series of invasions of the Mongol Empire, that lasted from 1205 to 1337 AD. The 1221 slaughter of the city Neyshābūr was the result of a revenge killing. The husband of Genghis Khan's daughter had been killed in the city, and as a result she ordered the skulls of the city's 1.7 million inhabitants to be piled in pyramids throughout the compound, which was done with brutal ferocity.

In Persia alone, roughly 2,250,000 people (mainly civilians) were killed during the invasions by being outright slaughtered by the Mongols, or having died during the subsequent famines caused by the destruction of the progressive irrigation systems. Before the invasions, there were only about 2,500,000 people in Persia. Libraries were burned, mosques destroyed, and once continuous settlement patterns became oasis cities (mainly due to the aforementioned irrigation systems being destroyed, and the decimated population).

Also, the Mamluks were a sort of kingdom in northern Egypt at the time of the Mongol invasions, a sort of southern expansion of the early Ottoman Empire. The Mamluks, these guys were no joke. They were able to successfully fend off several invasions from the Mongols, and only suffered one defeat (which they bounced back from by trouncing the Mongols later on once and for all). One of the few groups who were able to repeal the devastation that the Mongols brought across Asia.

And, of course, modern Istanbul is actually the city of Constantinople; the name was changed in 1930, a part of the changes enacted by the new Turkish Republican government.

**Author's Notes: **You've been here before. Just look how things turned out.

**Kemet [Ancient Egypt]**: Naqada, mother of [modern] Egypt and [modern] Greece.  
**[Ancient] Persia**: Elaheh Ahura Mazda, sister of Kemet, mother of Iran.  
[**Ancient] Greece**: Aléxandros Herakleitos, father of Iran and [modern] Greece.  
**Ottoman Empire**: Baris Nefret Düsmanlik, father of Turkey and Spain.

**The Caliphate:** Abd Al Rahman, Arabic for 'servant of the merciful'.  
**Byzantine Empire: **Justinian Isaura Constantine, 2nd son of Rome.  
**Egypt:** Misr Lailat al-Barāh. Daughter of Kemet, mother of Turkey.  
**Turkey:** Ankara Sadika Düsmanlik, daughter of the Ottoman Empire.


	4. La Nochebuena

**Everlasting Night**

Title: Prelude to Conflict  
**Chapter 4: **La Nochebuena  
**Characters: **Mexico, and a few children who would be states [someday].  
**Rating: **PG  
**Summary:** 1825; on Christmas Eve, Mexico's thoughts turn towards the future.

_Monterrey, December 25th, 1825_

It was good to finally be in bed.

This thought entered Valentin's mind as he finally laid his head down on his pillow. He had just finished setting up the presents for the children in the main parlor, leaving each small pile of gifts separately marked so that no one would have doubts about what belonged to whom. Spending Christmas day listening to the twins fighting over who the new doll belonged to was not how he wanted to spend another Christmas.

Normally, there wouldn't be any major gift giving until the Feast of the Epiphany, almost two weeks away, but España's son, Antonio, had introduced the German tradition of the 'Christ Child' to him years ago. He didn't care for it too much, being used to the traditional Spanish ways, but he had thought it would be a lovely treat for the children.

With all of the excitement the past few weeks have brought, he was surprised to find that the children were so willing to go to bed. Normally, any special event was greeted with much enthusiasm and excitement amongst the children, which meant that the night before Mexico would be up, shepherding the children back into bed as they tried to stay up until dawn. It was as if they thought the day would not come unless they were up to personally greet it.

Even when he was able to bring a couple of them back into their beds, their siblings would slink off, waiting for him to look for them as the others sneaked off in turn. They seemed equally amused by his efforts to put them to bed as they were for whatever was coming up (whether it was a holiday or a trip to the coasts).

However, two weeks of Las Posadas leading up to tonight, in addition to the Misa de Gallo they had attended only an few hours ago and the feast that followed it, seemed to have exhausted them of their once seemingly infinite reserves of energy. He couldn't say that he was displeased with this adjustment. He had ordered them all to go to sleep after they returned from the feast, the children making only half-hearted protests with their bleary eyes as they snuggled into their blankets and drifted off into dreamland.

They had all elected to sleep in his room tonight, on the pretense of not letting any one of their group sneak out and peak at any presents that the Christ Child might have left in the night. In reality, it was because no one wanted to sleep alone on this night. He understood, of course: it just felt like, with all of the anticipation and buildup of the past weeks, they would be in the presence of something greater than themselves.

As a child, he had felt that way about España when she came to claim this land as her own. He was sure the children had felt that way too around her son, but this was more than just being a small nation amongst greater ones. It was their faith, which they shared with their people, that made them feel as if this time of the year was truly something sacred, something worthy of awe and admiration. The children weren't old enough to fully understand it yet, but he felt that they understood in ways other than words. They were smart like that.

Shifting slightly as to not wake his bedmate, Mexico lifted his head up from his pillow, surveying the crowd around his bed in the dim light. A single candle had been left burning in a desk near the window, a minor precaution in case on of the little ones needed to get up at night in unfamiliar surroundings. Space was kind of an issue, and though he didn't mind all of them squeezing together and trying to fit in on the bed, most had elected just to drag their sleeping pallets and blankets into the room, turning his floor into an impromptu inn.

The girls had pushed their pallets together, layering their blankets over each other as they laid face to face, hands clasped together. Their long brown hair framed halos around them, making them look like little angels. It was nice seeing them so peaceful together, the twins for once not arguing with each other as they did during daylight. One was a little more delicate than the other (or was the other merely a little too troublesome?), prone to tears as the other wandered off, the gallant victor in whatever fight she had started.

Still, they couldn't help that they were twins, and acted like it whenever they weren't paying attention. It would be nice if they could act as sweet as they looked right now during the daytime, but he supposed it was something that time may improve. He would just have to wait and see.

A bit to the side, closer to the table, lay two of their brothers. These young fellows had not chosen to join their mats together like their sisters had, yet one had still managed to occupy almost half of the other's mat as his leg [and accompanying half of his lower body] ventured a bit too far to the right. Mexico smiled at this, the boy growing too large and too fast for his siblings to keep up.

This _once_ little blond whirlwind was quite a handful during most of the year, prone to wandering off on adventures no one else was privy to, [without so much as _a note or letter home, mind you_] and would ramble back home a few weeks [or months] later, a bit scuffed up but with a wide smile on his face and none worse for the wear.

Valentín wasn't quite sure what he was going to do with the boy as he kept getting bigger, if he would have to put his foot down with letting the boy wander off like such. Overlooking that, the boy was a dear, good natured with a heart as big as the blue skies that matched his eyes. A sweet, if _relentlessly _curious boy.

The boy who currently was having his sleeping mat annexed was almost the complete opposite of his much larger brother. Small, dark haired, and prone to doubt, he wasn't yet ready to be as fearless as the other one. He tended to trail after his twin sisters, feeling safer being lightly bullied by them than being dragged into whatever adventure the blond colossus wanted to make him a part of. Mexico had to admit to himself that the big one liked to play a bit too rough at times, and part of the reason why he felt so compelled to wander off from his siblings was that none of them quite matched up to him.

Sometimes, Mexico wondered if he even did, or if the boy would someday just get too big and leave on his own...

_...but for once not coming back..._

Smile fading a bit, Mexico leaned back into his pillows, looking away from the open sleeping faces as he stared up at the ceiling. These thoughts had been coming to him, more and more often since his independence from España, and they never seemed to lessen in negativity. During the day it was easy enough to go through the normal patterns, dealing with paperwork from his new government as he tried to ease the transition in rule.

In addition to his newly established duties as a nation (instead of just being a sort of go-between with Antonio, who had been assigned to his mother's northern colonies), he had the children to look after. Making sure they got out of bed on time, attended their classes, didn't leave any miniature disasters in their wake (the blond in particular seemed perpetually trailed by them), the list of his duties never ended.

They weren't his sons or daughters, nor were they siblings to him. For all he knew, they didn't have anyone but each other to call family, and aside from the twins they were only a loose one at that. Still, it was nice living together like this, and even though they could be a headache he loved all of them dearly. Spending each day with them made him happier in ways he never felt before when he was off living alone as a child.

He didn't want to think what things would be like if they weren't there anymore, if he had to wake up to an empty house with an even emptier heart.

What would happen, if one day they wanted to leave him? It was hard for him to contemplate any reason for why they would want to go. They seemed happy, and whenever he wasn't working for his country he was tending to them, making sure they wanted for naught. What would they have to resent him for? Taking a steadying breath, he thought about his own former ruler.

He had never really hated the woman, not before or after he declared independence, though he had a vague feeling that he should have. The ones in the far south, he knew, hated her overwhelmingly, despising their former mistress in a way that he didn't quite understand. Even her son seemed surprised at his lack of animosity in the few time he had seen him since the split. On the battlefield, the young man had been civil enough, seemingly uninterested in fighting even though he had been ordered to by his mother.

_It was almost like he had wanted him to leave._

Antonio had also been the one to warn Valentín about the children. He had told him to hide them from España, but he had never told him why. The words of warning he had spoken were said normally enough, in a calm, cheerful tone, yet there was something in his face that didn't seem quite right. The way his eyes settled on everything other than his face, made Mexico feel uneasy. Still, he had taken his warning to heart, and had kept the children as far away from España as possible. For what it was worth, they children had been safe, and that was all that mattered in the end.

Even with her gone, there were other nations to worry about. He thought of the one in the north in particular. He had never met the young woman, though her reputation had preceded her. Young, and by Antonio's account, sort of pretty, she was a lover of life, liberty, and the pursuit of expanding her territories, if the past few years were any indication. From a small confederation of states on the coast rebelling against their colonizer to a mass collection of territories, he wasn't sure what to think about the whole mess. He just knew that he didn't want to see the day when the children would prefer being a part of _her_ instead of _him_.

He turned his head, letting his eyes flit down towards to form sleeping besides him. Currently, his left arm was no longer in his possession, having been acquisitioned by the dark haired boy sleeping besides him. Unlike his brothers and sisters, this one had made a point to share a bed with his father-figure, the little one too young to be able to sleep peacefully by himself.

The older ones liked to tease him for his delicate ways, but Mexico always waved it off, not being in a rush for any of them to grow up just yet. It was nice, having a little head of unruly curls follow him around the hacienda, sort of like a miniature little sun trailing after him, radiating a sort of hopeful joy that he cherished.

He pulled the boy closer to him, letting his head rest back against his chest as his arms wrapped around the sleeping form. It may be warmer than the north here in this land, but it was still chilly in winter, and at night it was even colder. The warmth that the boy provided was the reason why he clung to him so tightly, not because he was afraid of letting him go.

In a few hours, the sun would be rising over the horizon, welcoming the birth of the Christ child as it did every year on this day. Mexico couldn't afford _not_ to sleep, with five rambunctious little children set on frolicking about as they celebrated their Christmas time. They were too excited for this day for him to ruin it with his worries.

Pressing a soft kiss into the boy's hair, he settled his head back into the pillows, closing his eyes and letting sleep finally claim him. He would deal with tomorrow when the day finally came; until, he would just be content with the children getting along. If they didn't amount to a family, he didn't know what would.

_Feliz Navidad, mis niños.  
_

* * *

_  
_**Historical Notes:** Mexico, a former Spanish colony and a predominately Catholic country, holds many traditions over from it's former colonizer, in addition to its own. 'Misa de Gallo', literally the 'Mass of the Rooster', is the midnight mass straddling Christmas Eve and Day, popular in Latin countries. 'Las Posadas' is a sort of traditional reenactment of the trials of Mary and Joseph on the night that Christ was born. It begins in December on the 16th and ends on the 24th, with different families hosting the events. The 'Christ Child' is a Germanic tradition, with the child bringing gifts during the night on Christmas Eve. In Mexico, gift giving mainly takes place on the Feast of the Epiphany, the 6th of January.

Mexico, or 'The United Mexican States' as it was at this time, became fully independent of España/Spain in 1824. It had _declared_ independence on September 16th 1810, and a long and convoluted road fourteen years later finally lead to an established state. The United State's 'Manifest Destiny' wouldn't come to cause trouble for Mexico until 1836, when the Republic of Texas was formed (which would soon be annexed by the United States). The Mexican-American War (1846-1848), in which Mexico was fighting to reclaim a breakaway territory (Texas), was a devastating loss for Mexico, with almost half of its land being taken by the United States.

**Author's Notes: **Poor Mexico. Things are going to go downhill for him in a hurry, and won't get better into well into the next century.

**M********exico**- Valentín Juarez, a sort of father-figure/caretaker.  
**California **- The jolly blond giant of a brother.  
**Arizona **- The less delicate twin sister.  
**New Mexico **- The delicate twin sister.  
**Nevada **- The nervous brunet brother.  
**Texas **- The youngest of the siblings.

Also, while there were more states under Mexican rule during this time, I picked the ones with the greatest Mexican influence to be the ones that actually lived with him. The others are off, traipsing about elsewhere.


	5. Laṛakā

**Everlasting Night**

**Title:** Prelude to Conflict

**Chapter 5: **Laṛakā**  
Characters/Pairings: **Aryan/India, Pakistan**  
Rating: **R, Mild dub-con that doesn't quite reach full sex.**  
Summary: **On his attempt to consolidate his claim, Aryan finds opposition on two fronts.

_Delhi, 900 BC_

He was waiting for her as she entered his bedchamber.

Earlier in the day, he had saw it fit to 'request' her presence in his private chambers later that night. He had been polite about it, as was his habit, smiling genially at her as the words left his lips. Of course, any request that was silently an order didn't really fall under the category of 'polite', and a thousand of his most sincere smiles wouldn't make her any more any more eager to share a bed with him.

Not that it mattered, though, and in a way she really didn't care.

It was becoming routine at this point, this humiliating exercise just another part of her duties as he still held power in her land. In a way she supposed she should be grateful, with her duties in his household limited to taking care of herself and obeying him. The child she had chosen to watch over was more of an afterthought then anything else; since their lands had been merged under Aryan, she had seen the north as just a part of her terrain anyways.

_Still..._

A domesticated life was only a shadow of a real one. Whenever he returned form his conquests, he made a point to keep her indoors, forbidding her from leaving the outer pavilion of the palace. He preferred keeping her away from her people, saying that it influenced her men's minds in unbecoming ways. She thought it was less to protect her feminine modesty and more to prevent creating a rallying point for her people. An uprising would be most inconvenient for him, to be sure.

Her thoughts touched upon her position in this part of her life as she made her way towards his chambers. Her pace, while steady, was slow, as she was unwilling to hasten their engagement._ 'If I have to do this, it's not for his sake.'_

With that thought she cleared the rest of the distance between herself and his rooms, and without any pretenses of embarrassment or hesitation she pushes open the door, letting it fall back into its frame as she enters the antechamber and makes her way towards his bedroom.

Diaphanous hangings section off this room from the others, thin enough to allow her to see the candlelight outline his frame. He's standing at the foot of his bed, patiently waiting for her obedient arrival. Another wave of loathing passes over her, but refusing to break her stride she continues on, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing her squirm. The smile that was already on his lips widens as she enters, his face transforming from a neutrally pleased one to a look of happy surprise, as if he didn't hear her opening the door earlier.

As if he didn't know that she would be here when he called.

She wanted to dig her nails into his face to see if the smile would still hold as the flesh was torn from his skull.

He slowly reaches his arms out to her, gently beckoning her towards him in the dim light. There's no intimacy here so there's no need for eye contact, India walking into his embrace without bothering to acknowledge him. Unperturbed, he closes his arms around her slight frame, the act solidifying the fact that she was ensnared within his grasp.

"I missed you."

He buries his face into her hair, breathing in her scent as his arms tighten around her. He had returned from his latest campaign in the south only a few days ago, head held high as his frustration at the hampered expansion boiled inside of him. She hadn't been there to welcome him and his division of troops, and she had remained within her wing of the palace he had set aside for her in the days that followed. Today had been the first day he had seen her, having sent an official request that she be present as he dined that night. It wasn't anything new, having to order her to spend time with him, but he treasured every moment of it.

With her slender frame taunt against his, he leads her over to the bed, gently pushing her down upon it as he soon follows. The light the candles cast in the room is weak, but he can see her clearly enough as he moves a hand up to caress the side of her face. Her lips are set in a straight line, her eyes mutely focused towards the side of the room; displeased, he tries to turn her face towards him, meeting little resistance but even less cooperation as she continues to avoid looking at him.

If she had merely been averting her eyes due to modesty, or blushing at the proximity that they shared, he wouldn't have been bothered, pleased just at the fact that he had been able to elicit some kind of emotion towards him. It was just the sheer absence of interest that she radiated that made him want to force her down even more.

"When I was in the south," he starts, his fingers still stroking her face, "I thought of something you might like." Lacking a response, he continues. "With everything that has gone on in these past years, all of the changes, I think it would be…_appropriate_, if we made a more, _symbolic _change." His fingers brush against her lips, and his smile softens; still, when he tries to meet her eyes, there is nothing.

Giving up, his mouth descends upon her neck, pressing his lips against the delicate flesh as his other hand brushes up the side of her hip. She doesn't push him away, and he parts his lips, gently sucking along her pulse point. The hand that had been caressing her face moved downward, steadying her neck his lips continued their work. The other is busy pulling up the folds of her skirt as his hand trails up her thigh.

He can feel his breath growing heavier, and he can't help that he's already this aroused so early into the night. He's still hovering over her, his knees balancing him as he continues his ministrations, careful not to bear his weight down upon her and to keep his hardening erection from brushing against her.

For now.

He knows that she isn't but he can't help be see her as delicate, forever apprehensive about hurting her. It doesn't matter if she hates this or not, he always tries to make it as pleasant for her as he can, careful not to mar the perfect skin when he buried himself inside of her.

She never fought against him, letting him do as he pleased as she laid there, always allowing him her body as her mind went elsewhere. He hated that she did that, hated it more than everything else that she didn't care.

Still, it was better than nothing, and as long as she belonged to him he would never have to let her go.

He can feel her breathe hitch in the slightest as his fingers brush over her covered sex, the involuntary reflex making him swallow hard as his other arm wraps around her back. He pulls himself up, leveling his face against her chest as his fingers work their way past the flimsy fabric between her legs. His lips are then upon her left breast, his tongue laving against her covered flesh as she bring an arm up to wrap around his neck. He knows that she's doing this to steady herself so that her back isn't forced to arch, but he still loves the feel of her arm around him.

Her skirt is already hiked up around her waist, her sari long since unwound as he brings the hand that had been feeling inside of her up to her shoulder, pulling down the sleeve of her dress as his hand trailed down her arm. His eyes follow the descent of the cloth, enraptured as more and more of her swarthy skin was revealed to him. He always thought that it was so beautiful, so perfect, so much darker than his own or his sister's. He didn't care if they thought that it was inferior: they were far away and now it was only the two of them.

"You're so beautiful, you know. So beautiful." Raising his head up, he continues. "I think, and so does some of my generals, that you would be, if possible, _even more _beautiful, if we were to change your name. For my people, at least." Nothing but a slight tensing of her arms is her reaction, and for him it's not a protest in its own.

"Would you like that? I could give you a wonderful name, something beautiful in my language." His fingers, having pulled down enough of her dress to expose her fully, move on towards the abandoned breast. "Would you like Sandhya? It's close enough to the one you have now, but perhaps we can do better".

Without warning, he reaches down, hiking one of her legs up around his waist, his erect manhood flush against her sex. "Or would you," Aryan finding it harder to form words, "like Rupinder? It would be perfect, since there is no one more beautiful than you."

His breathing is getting heavier as her eyes close, blocking out as much of this as she can. He cares, but he's too engrossed in his arousal to think of stopping now, and she can only wait and hope that he finishes early. Perhaps he won't insist that she sleep beside him. It was getting harder and harder to ignore what was happening around and within her, but she has long since stopped receiving any sexual gratification from this. It's humiliating, 'Oh that never stops', but it will eventually end.

"Or Rani? Would you like that?" She can feel him pressing the hardened tip of his arousal against her entrance, and tries to relax her muscles before he pushes in: it will make it less painful. "Would you like to be my Queen? Yes, Rani would be perfect, since I am already your King."

She lets her head turn to the side as his lips return to her neck, her eyes closed to a slit so that the physical stimulation doesn't overwhelm her. She wants to feel nothing, and sees nothing but the candlelight flicker across the curtains. Nothing, except-

Her muscles tense, involuntarily clamping down on his erection as he lets out a strangled hiss. Her voice cuts through the room, stopping Aryan mid-thrust.

_"Go back to sleep, Rajveer."_

Caught off-guard, Aryan glances over his shoulder, seeing nothing but hearing the door as it slams behind a retreating figure. Small footsteps are heard after it shuts, racing off across the stone passageway. Annoyed, he exhales heavily, but his irritation is halted as he feels himself being shoved off of her.

He lands painfully onto the stone floor on his right arm with a muffled cry, confusion mixing in with his annoyance. Trying to right himself, he catches a glimpse of India readjusting her dress before draping her discarded sari over her arm; without a word, she walks out, leaving him a mess of tangled limbs, confused and still unsatisfied.

Her footsteps echo heavily in the silent halls, a distinct change from before. She didn't bother reapplying her sari, since it would take half an hour to properly adjust and it was just coming off again anyways. No, the only thing she could be bothered with now was making her way towards her wing of the palace, where no doubt the brat had run off to. The halls were dark, and no one was there to see the anger radiating off her heated flesh, nor how her nails were digging into the meat of her palms as she made her way.

She knew were he would be.

Now all she needed to know was _why_.

He didn't bother closing the door, let alone latching it, and it gives way easily as she pushes it aside. Stepping in from the hallway, her bare feet reach the soft mats that line the chambers outside of her bedroom; some candles are still lit throughout the room, further proof that he hadn't gone to sleep when she had put him to bed over an hour ago. Her nails dig in a little deeper, and without unclenching her fist she brushes aside the heavy cloth that partitions her room, revealing a huddled form wrapped in **her **blankets upon **her **bed. The sight disgusts her, and her face twists into a grimace.

_"Get out of __**my **__bed."_

The form shifts under the blankets, a dark, angry little face peering out at her. "No." His defiant tone is at odds with the dried tear tracks that line his cheeks. "If you're not going to be here than I will, you should too I hate you." His sentences are jumbled together, with nothing but his anguished hate joining them together. "I hate you and your stupid name and _you can't change it_."

Impatient, Sayara marches over, yanking the blankets off of the bed, forcefully dragging the boy out of his protective cocoon. _"I told you to get out."_ A hand clenches painfully around his arm, pulling him up onto the floor with more force than necessary. "I don't want your dirty little head on **my **bed, whether I'm here or not. Go back in your room and stay there this time." Pulling his face close to hers, she looks him in the eyes, his agonized ones matched with her hateful ones. "Do you understand me?"

"Stop it, I hate you, I hate you, _let go!" _Squirming in her grasp, his free hand tries to pry her finger off of his arm. "And it's not your room, it's his and I hate you, and you shouldn't go back!" With one more desperate wrench, he breaks free from her grasp, his chest heaving as he faces her.

He's no where near a match for her and he knows it, his child's head only reaching up to her breasts. He hates being so small, and he hates her so much, but he hates the other more.

He hates her, he hates her so much, _and it hurts._

Eyeing him with disdain, Sayara debates whether to drag him back into his room or to just leave him here. Aryan will be getting impatient, and she doesn't want to prolong their 'engagement' any longer than she has to. With a sneer, she turns away, deciding that he's not worth the extra effort. She starts to walk out of the room, reaching the outer chamber before her progress is halted.

A child's hands pull on her skirt as a tear-stained face buries itself against the small of her back. A tiny voice breaks the silence, muffled against her dress. "Don't go."

She hates it when Aryan touches her, and somehow this is even worse. His tears are staining the back of her dress, the fabric becoming damp and sticking disgustingly to her skin as he presses his face in deeper. His hands release their hold on her dress, gingerly raising up to wrap around her narrow waist. "Please, don't go, please don't go, he hurts you, he always hurts you, _and you let him. _I hate him, and I hate you, please don't go." His arms tighten around her, a sob racking his body as he begins to cry in earnest.

_"Don't go if he hurts you."_

It takes all of her willpower to not turn around and wrap her fingers around his fragile neck. She can't stand it when he touches her, and if he doesn't let go soon she'll start screaming and she won't be able to stop. Willing her hands to obey her, she clamps her them down around his wrists, prying them apart as she breaks his hold. Without even sparing a glance at the weeping child, she walks on, her head held high as her eyes face forward.

"I expect you to sleep in your own room tonight. You don't have a right to be here," she calls over her shoulder before pausing at the door. "If you ever intrude on me again when I am in his chambers, I will kill you myself."

"Do you understand?"

A sob is all the answer she receives, the boy slumping down to the floor, the fight gone out of him. Satisfied, she walks on, heading towards the chambers she had left not half an hour before. She can't see him anymore, but she can still hear the boy. He's howling now, like a wounded animal, no doubt still crumpled on the floor like how she had left him. He'll probably disobey her again, wrapping himself in her blankets as he cried himself to sleep instead of retreating to his own room.

As long as he didn't come into Aryan's room again, it would do.

She reaches her destination quicker than she intended, partially lost in her thoughts as she reenters his room. Aryan's sitting on his bed this time, partially disrobed (he had shed his shirt in her absence), looking irritated as he waited for her to come. He didn't bother raising up to greet her this time, impatient for her to hurry. Draping her sari carefully over a chair, she settles herself down next to him, unperturbed as his hands rapidly divest her of her clothing.

"He is gone now?" he murmurs, his lips against her ear as he resumes his position above her. One of his knees had pushed his way between her legs, not quite forcing them open but none too gentle either. "Will he do what he's told, _this time_?" Smirking, he breathes in deeply, inhaling her scent again as one of his hands guides his newly re-hardened arousal against her.

"You must like your pet, don't you, if you keep him around even when he disobeys you. Maybe it just wanted to watch, hmm? Maybe he just wanted to see what a _real _man does with the things he owns?" She's silent him, trying to ignore his words as he tries to goad her into answering him. He's angry from the interruption, and the sooner he works out his frustration the faster this will over with.

Perturbed by her lack of response, he presses on. "What should we do with him then, I wonder? He doesn't seem to make you happy, and you know how much I care about that. Maybe," he pushes inside of her, forcing his way into her unyielding sex as she lets out a thin gasp. "Maybe, my queen, you don't need him at all? I should get rid of him for you, shouldn't I? You would like that, wouldn't you?"

He can feel that she stopped breathing, and he knows he's hit a spot. He grins. "Yes, I'll get rid of it for you. I'll kill him in the morning, and you won't have to worry at all, will-"

He's cut off as two arms wrap around his back, deftly reaching around his shoulders before two hands settle upon his face. Her back is arched now, her body flush against his, leaving him no space to move way. He can feel two thumbnails digging into the soft flesh beneath his jaw as twin sets of fingers press against the skin under his eyes, pushing into the gap above the bone that lines his eye socket.

He was too surprised to move at first, but quickly panic begins to set in; he tries to move his arms, but she's pressed too close for him to be able to reach her. Words are trapped in his throat as he tries to speak, the fingers pressing against his eye sockets and under his jaw preventing him from opening his mouth. He's trying to move away from her but he can't, his upper body forced rigidly upright as her arms force his head back. Her nails are digging into his flesh, already slicing into the flesh under his jaw as the others cut into the delicate skin below his eyes.

Gagging, his tries to look down, desperate to try and make sense of the situation. Looking down, he sees that's she's finally looking at him, _actually looking at him _for the first time since he's returned. Her face still soft and delicate, but her eyes are hard. She locks eyes with him as her voice quietly cuts through the room.

"You will not touch him," She whispers softly, watching as little beads of blood begin forming under his eyes. "You will not go near him. You won't even think about him, do you understand?" Some of the beads form together, rolling down his face in a grotesque parody of the tears that had been running down the boy's face earlier. "He doesn't belong to you."

_I don't belong to you._

"We are never going to speak of this again, neither the boy nor the names, and nothing will happen to the child. Should this not come to pass, I will not hesitate to break this neck you're so proud of."

"Do you understand?"

She releases her hold on him, disengaging her nails as she lets him fall to his side, leaning back upon her heels as his hands fly to his face. He can the bloody indent under his jaw, the blood trickling down his neck. Already he can feel the bruising growing under his eyes, the flesh there raw and bloodied from her nails.

Still, he can breathe, and as his fingers run over his bloody face relief flows over him, relief at knowing that it'll be healed by morning. Their kind heal fast, and despite the adrenaline that had been running through his system he has the sense of mind to be grateful that she didn't decide to puncture an eye. _Speaking of her…_

He looks up at her, wondering why she didn't continue. She's sitting there, patiently waiting at the head of the bed. She's watching him with a bored look on her face as she waits for him to regain his composure. He swallows hard, trying to think of what to do as she just sits there. It's not like he can retaliate. He could hurt her, but he would not. He never could. He doesn't know how to bring this situation back to before the boy had come in, and it's not fair-

"Well?"

It takes a moment for him to realize that she has spoken, too caught up in his own thoughts to pay attention to what was around him. She's shifted from her sitting position, nudging him aside with her foot as she lays herself out, her long legs stretching out along the bed.

"What are you waiting for?" she asks, her bored tone reaching out to him as she faces the ceiling. Her fingers are still stained with his blood, but she's so beautiful, and he can't help but bring himself up over to her, his hands bracing himself over her as he brings his face level with hers.

Her face is still tilted towards the ceiling, though her half-lidded eyes are looking down on him without emotion. No anger, no hate, nor any warmth or fear. It was if the past few minutes had not happened, as if the boy had never intruded in on them just an hour ago. As if she hadn't clawed half of his face, as if nothing had happened.

His lips part but no words come out, hallowing trying to form an answer to the questions that she asked. A hand locks around his wrist, guiding his arm over her head as the rest of him lowers down upon her.

"You haven't finished yet."

And so he does.

* * *

**Historical Notes: **This takes place around the mid-period of the Aryan rule, after the onset of the Iron Age in the Indus River valley. While the region that would eventually become Pakistan would have been conquered first, India is the main stronghold of the empire. Pakistan, as we know it, doesn't officially exist until the 1947 partition of British-ruled India. It's name, 'Pakistan', is derived from the five main British sub regions in the area: the **P**unjab, **A**fghania, **K**ashmir, **S**indh, and Balochi**stan**. The name was first used in 1934. In Urdu, one of the official language of Pakistan, the state name means '_Land of the Pure'_.

These two countries have a long shared history, and little of it is happy. Very little.

**India: **Sayara Ashoka Mahakali. 'Saya' is Hindi for 'Close of Day'.  
**Aryan: **Amar, Sanskrit for 'Immortal'.**  
Pakistan: **Rajveer, Punjabi for 'King of the Land'.

For the names Aryan tried giving India, all of them are in Sanskrit, his language. Rani is 'Queen', Sandhya is 'Twilight', and Rupinder is [the] 'Greatest Beauty'. 'Laṛakā', the title, is Hindi for 'the boy'.


	6. A Electus Finis

**Everlasting Night**

**Title: **Prelude to Conflict  
**Chapter 6: **A Electus Finis  
**Characters: **Rome and Germania  
**Rating: **T, implied death.  
**Summary: **A circle completes itself, as it has done a thousand times before…

_Rome, 476 AD_

That little whore.

That _fucking_ little blond whore.

Rome can't help but grin, blood staining his mouth as his lips curled up. It's been seven days since the siege began, and it would be many more before it ended. Not that it mattered, of course.

_Not that it mattered at all._

He shifts his shoulder, raising a tired arm in order to wipe his bloodied mouth. He is sick with disgust at his pathetic state as he leaned on one of the statues in the abandoned temple. Diana was looking awfully pretty tonight, lit up by the burning buildings and bodies that surrounded them outside. If it wasn't for the fact that his city was being razed to the ground, he might have thought to have a little fun here. However, he was afraid that tonight was not the night for games. There was a certain someone who was busy occupying his thoughts at the moment.

The one who was coming for him now.

Another violent coughing fit wracked his body, bringing up more blood with each rasp. _'And the little shit's taking his time too.' _For someone who was supposed to be driven by efficiency, the boy wasn't exactly making haste with his conquest. He wiped his mouth again, a smile once reforming upon his lips.

'_I thought I taught him better than that.' _

He had made a point to train the boy as well as he could, paying as much attention to details as he had with his own children. Perhaps that was why, at this final hour, none of his children had come to his aide. Suppose they have something better to do than to die here.

'_Pity, I actually wanted to see them for once…'_

_One last time..._

'_Suppose Reina got what she wanted, after all.'_

He hears something outside, just beyond the pillars that lined the sanctuary. What remained of his men were off [_dying_] in the streets, fighting the Visigoths with the last of his strength. He was proud of them, all of them. Most of the soldiers had fled before the siege had even begun, sparing their lives by deserting their empire.

_By leaving him behind._

It was insulting, really.

Resting his weary head against a pillar, he hears another noise, closer this time. A sharp, metallic sound, followed by heavy footsteps meant to be quiet were making their way across the entrance. Rome closes his eyes, letting the cool marble sooth his heated brow. The fires were really starting to get worse, and if the boy didn't hurry up he wasn't going to stay conscious much longer.

It would take all the fun out of this little reunion.

"Hello, Germanus."

The young man stiffened, clearly believing that he had arrived undetected. "It's Germania now. You know that."

Rome scoffs, keeping his eyes closed as a smirk grazes his blood smeared lips. "Call yourself whatever you want, but you'll always be Germanus to me, or don't you like that? I thought you always liked it when I called you-"

"Stop playing games, Rome." The boy brusquely interrupts, indignation coloring his face an ignoble red.

"Ah, so I'm only _Rome_ now, am-"

"Stop it!" Rome doesn't even have to open his eyes to know what Germania looks like right now, his principled, righteous features screwed up in child-like anger. _'If the boy's going to get anywhere in life, he'll have to control that temper of his.'_

"You know," Rome pushes himself up on one arm, stretching his back until it cracked (none too pleasantly), "you're lucky your men aren't here to see you, because you'd make a sight indeed, letting yourself get all flustered like that. That's not how a proper empire carries himself, it is?"

Scowling, the younger man straightens himself up, trying to calm himself before speaking. "I don't need _you_, of all people, to tell me how to act as a nation, let alone as an empire." They can hear the fighting outside drawing nearer, the sounds of swords against shields and the screams of dying men echoing throughout the temple's halls. "It's not like you have very long left."

Rome breathes out heavily, preparing to rise. "No, boy. That I do not." Using his sword, he tries to steady himself, bracing against the pillar as he attempted to rise to his feet. He's halfway up before the sword's tip slips on the tiles, sending him ingloriously back onto the stone floor with grunt of pain.

Germania steps forward, reaching out to him before he realizes what he's doing. As soon as he realizes, he draws his hand back, ashamed at the momentary lapse. A snort breaks the silence, Rome unable to help but laugh at his own helplessness. _'It's quite funny, really.'_ If it's possible, Germania scowls even more, confusion and fury at war upon his painfully young face.

'_It's all just a joke.'_

"You really don't know how to take anything seriously, do you?" Germania crosses the distance between them, brandishing his sword towards the older empire. "You know, boy, if you're not careful, you're going to hurt yourself with that. Didn't anyone ever tell you that you shouldn't run with sharp objects?"

The boy's absolutely _fuming _now. He's looking less like a soldier than he did before, more like a child dressed up in his father's uniform. Rome knows he shouldn't tease him so, knowing that he was marring Germania's eventual victory by doing this, but he really can't help himself. He never really could, and besides, it's not like he's ever going to get a chance again.

"You really have no shame, do you?" Germania's sword comes to rest against Rome's throat. "You're just going to sit there, mocking me, as your men are dying in the streets. Do you even care, or are you so devoid of humanity that it doesn't bother you?"

"Is this a trick question, or do a get a couple of minutes to answer? I'm terrible under pressure, really-" The blade presses in, a thin line of blood appearing on Rome's neck as the skin is cut into. "Is this how you are going to spend you final moments?" Germania mutters quietly, holding the blade steady.

Rome shrugs, letting the blade cut in deeper than Germania intended. "I don't know. Would you like me to beg?"

Germania draws back, stiffening as he moves the blade away enough to hover over the skin. His hand's shaking, and sweat has begun to appear upon his brow.

It's almost sweet.

"Do you realize the things you have done? The crimes you have committed against your own kind?"

"Crimes? My dear boy, I've done _nothing_ that hasn't been done before, by nations and empires far older than myself." Letting himself lean back again against the marble, he closes his eyes, trying to ride out the latest wave of pain that has wracked his body.

The fighting would not last much longer.

"You know what you've done. How many of them did you have to kill before you were done? How many did you have to slaughter before you felt like you've done something?!"

"Germanus please, spare me-"

"Do not, call me **that**!" Rome's eyes flit open as the sword is back against his neck, hate flashing in Germania's blue eyes as blood begins to trickle from the wound in earnest. "You don't have the right to call me, or anyone else that!"

"But Germania, you _are_ my-"

"I am not your brother, nor would I ever want to be."

"That's rather harsh-"

"You _had_a brother."

"Oh, that?" Rome weary eyes look up at Germania, wondering when exactly the boy got to be so precocious. "It was a shame, really. Greece made such a fuss after that unfortunate mess with that whore of the Nile, I-"

"That's **not **who I'm talking about." The blade cuts a little deeper, his eyes becoming cold all at once. "Did you really think no one would find out what you did? What you did on the island…"

For once, Rome can't find it within him to speak. Germania's eyes are locked down upon his, the burning anger from before cooled into a bitter hate. It was no wonder the boy was so upset: he had honestly thought no one would ever find out.

Germania presses on. "How could you-" The boy's lofty words bring him back out of his stupor.

"Fratricide is nothing new, _Germania._ You'll find out on your own if you live long enough, so spare me your high and mighty attitude and finish what you came here for."

A scarred, bleeding hand grabs onto Germania's blade, guiding it back towards his neck. "Or do you need help finishing the job?"

They remain there, silent for a while. The sounds from the streets outside have dimmed, perhaps because the fighting has moved elsewhere or because neither man cares much for the world beyond them. Rome had closed his eyes when he pushed the cold metal against his skin, waiting for what he had been expecting for the past few years. When several minutes go by, with his head still erroneously upon his shoulders, he looks up, wanting to see what the delay as about.

Looking up, he can see Germania's eyes are large, desperately trying to remain harsh as the reality of the situation begins to seep into them. "This isn't how I wanted it to be…" he says softly, the words barely discernable even in the silence of the temple.

"This isn't how you wanted to win?"

"No." He shakes his head, the blond locks swaying, casting his eyes in shadow. "That's not it."

"I didn't think it had to be like this. I didn't think…" He swallows hard. "I didn't think you had to die." He whispers the last words out, letting them hang in the air between them.

"Well, the truth's a let-down, isn't it?" Rome looked away, wondering how long it would be before the young, beautiful face above him would be covered with scars and pain. "It's either me or you; it's always been that way… There isn't room in the world for two empires. There never will be."

There are tears threatening to fall in Germania's eyes, and while Rome would have loved nothing more than to pull him down into his arms and brush them away, he knew that it couldn't be. His time was over.

"It's alright. It's going to be ok." He closes his eyes again, hoping that it will be easier for the boy to finish the job that way. "It's always been ok. You'll finish this and go on, and maybe make something great out of yourself. Eventually, someone will come for you too, but try and enjoy your life as you can."

A softer smile graces his bloodied lips, absent of anger or derision. "I'm proud that you got to be so big. I'm sure you'll go far."

_And if not, then there would be someone else to take your place. There always will be._

"I hate you." It's a half lie and they both know it, but it needed to be said.

"I know."

"You deserve this."

"I do."

"I won't remember you."

Rome smiles, a hint at his former self seeping through his broken shell.

"You'll try."

There's still a smile on his face when the blade swings down.

* * *

**Historical Notes: **No one agrees upon a date for the fall of the Roman Empire, though 476 AD is one of the ones thrown around. Visigoths had attacked the city before, but it was with this attack that the emperor, Romulus Augustus, was deposed. So was the end of the Roman Empire, though it would live on in legacy with the eastern branch (Byzantine Empire) and in the west with Gaul (France) and Hispania (Spain).

**Author's Notes: **Rome had helped raise Germania, who in turn used his teachings to help take down the decaying empire. Rome's clever little children were decidedly absent at then time Rome's teenaged protégée chose to attack. Rome killed off [Ancient] Greece when the young man protested Rome's murder of Kemet. With the fratricide comment, it runs similar to the myth on the founding of Rome.

**Rome**: Aurelius 'Marcus' Marcellus, Ancient Roman for "Golden/Glided Mars".  
**Germania**: Hulderic, Ancient Germanic for "Merciful Rule/Power".  
_Germanus_ is Latin for 'brother'.


	7. Familia

20100517 Edit, and if there are errors forgive me but damn! It's long now. Enjoy!

* * *

**Everlasting Night**

**Title: **Prelude to Conflict  
**Chapter 7: **Familia  
**Characters/Pairings: **France, España, Portugal, Byzantine Empire, and England  
**Rating: **PG-13.  
**Summary: **1100 AD, New blood is always the sweetest.

_Paris, 1100 AD_

"I can't wait for you to meet everyone, Angleterre."

France's words are light and warm, a welcome contrast to dark and rather dank corridor that he was leading England down. The boy can barely keep up with the older nation, Francis' quick and sure steps moving at a pace that left the other feeling half dragged as his own much smaller feet seemed to be intent on tripping him every other step. Through the passageway (which was regretfully only lit up by tapers intermittently: apparently Francis didn't mind walking through a castle suspended in an endless twilight), England could already hear the sounds coming down from the main hall, a low murmur of conversation and the higher pitches of laughter floating facelessly in the chilling air.

To say that he was nervous would be a lie. England was not a nervous boy, nor some sniveling brat who flinched whenever someone lifted their hand. He was a nation, and as a nation (like Francis, who still towered so needlessly tall over him, England could **not **be nervous. Size or age didn't matter, since knowing that he the nation of a proud and glorious people (never mind those in the North or West, who apparently couldn't be bothered to even look at him if he passed), and as such he know how he was to act.

No, he wasn't nervous.

He was just wondering how the people in the hall, all whom he had never met before, would handle his magnificent entrance (even if his small face only came up to Francis' slim hip). He was worried that they would be too overwhelmed with how splendid and gallant he was, that they may not know how to act around him. That they may be too in awe to talk to him.

That he would be there alone and out of place.

_Unwanted._

His fingers hold on a little tighter to Francis' hand, the other still babbling away without seeming to notice.

"And when you meet them, I know everyone will _love _you." Throughout England's internal dilemma, France was prattling on and on about the party ('For you, Angleterre, and your new King,' Francis had said, and while he had patted England's head kindly the boy had thought that most of Francis' men wouldn't have cared enough to throw the party for _him_) and how exciting it was that everyone would meet England.

_Everyone_, in France's eyes, was this time not the seemingly countless aides and advisors for seemed to shadow the older nation wherever he went, nor the court and nobility that he was usually bragging about. No, it wouldn't be that easy for England.

He could take all the nosey and loud (_and_ _pushy_) humans that Francis could throw at him (which was a metaphor or such, one of the things Francis taught him; before, it would seem like something Nina would do, the bloody horror that she was). No, the people he would be meeting were nothing as safe as humans. The people that France was enthusiastically _dragging _him to meet were, in fact, his siblings.

_Nation_ siblings, as old and as strong as Francis himself.

_Siblings_. Like his own…

…or hopefully not.

He didn't think there could be anything worse than his oldest brother (and the little horror that clung to him so).

Regardless, France's siblings were certainly _not_ why he was worried, because he wasn't worried at all to begin with. What reason had he to be? He kept telling himself that as the sounds kept getting louder, as the lights from the main hall illuminated the darker passage as he was led closer and closer to his doom.

"Mon petit Angleterre, everyone is going to love you, yes, yes indeed." England quietly wondered why Francis had to repeat this over and over. "My little brother will be there-"

'_Don't care.'_

And both my sisters too!"  
'_Good for you.'_

"You're going to love them."  
'_Why did you even bring me here?'_

"Especially my eldest sister, Reina, everyone loves her." England groans at this, but Francis is still too far gone in his chatter to her England's complaint, the elder's words pausing for a bit. "They all think that she's so pretty, and she is. Men just, can't help themselves around her."

England can't see Francis' face in the dark light, though he hears a slight shift in Francis voice. His small brow furrows for a moment before the elder continues on, his tone back to its usual bright pitch. "Sometimes it feels like the envoys I send to her never want to come back home, you know." The elder seemed to be getting chattier by the second. England wondered why the older nation felt so compelled to fill the silences with words when his beloved siblings awaited him.

He wondered.

Still, France didn't miss a beat. "What foolish men, show them a pretty face and they fall all over themselves like beasts." Shrugging his shoulders, his face brightens, and he turns to England with a self-satisfied wink. "Having a pretty face myself, I'd know about that." England made a face, and Francis laughed. He hated it when France acted so frivolously. That wasn't how men were supposed to act.

_Scotland never acted like that…_

"Oh, you'll going to fall in love with her too, won't you?" This is followed by a pinch on the cheek, one a little harder than the usual ones France gave him when he was teasing, not that Francis seemed to notice the change. "Yes, everyone will love you, little Angleterre. Come on now," He pulls England's arm a little harder, "here we are!"

With this, Francis pulls the younger boy towards the entrance of the great hall, Arthur's eyes hurting in the newly bright light. Now there are noises and lights everywhere, the room lit up brighter than daylight as hundreds of tapers illuminated the room. There seems to be just as many people milling about, and they just keep getting louder and louder, and for a moment it is just _too much_.

He falls back a pace as Francis continues on, the elder only noticing the other lagging behind when he feels a slight pull on his arm. Looking back, he sees the younger boy, larger than he was when they first met but still ever so small, and pauses for a bit. He nudges Arthur a bit to get the other's attention, and England looks up. He looks so nervous and small and terribly out of place, and Francis thinks he's never seen the boy look so adorable. So sadly adorable.

Smiling softly, he kneels down for a moment, getting eye level with the boy as his back shields England from any wandering eyes within the hall. His blond locks fall around is face, and he lifts his free hand towards England's head. "Angleterre," he murmurs, smoothing down the boy's unruly hair with a comforting hand. "I'm right here, and I'm not going to let go of your hand. You don't have to worry about anything, or _anyone_, alright?"

Flustered, the little boy bats his hand away, grumbling curses under his breath as his flushed face stares down at the floor, his other hand trying to sort his hair back into it usual [_messy_] state. "Whatever, stupid _Francis_."

Grinning, Francis musses up the boys hair again before rising up, earning more dark looks from England. "Come on now, be a dear and let me show you off to them." With that, he began pulling the boy along again as he made his way through the crowd. One of the better things about being a nation was that even if people didn't _know_ who you were, they could sort of _feel_ it.

People unconsciously moved out of Francis' way as he moved through the revelers, easing their way as they pressed onward (though Francis accomplished it with a innate grace that Arthur was never able to imitate, the elder gliding through the crowd like water as England stumbled along). It wasn't something he really understand himself, just another one of the countless things France had felt the need to explain to him in the past years. Ever since that jerk had come and felt the need to meddle in his life...

'_Stupid Francis.'_

"And here _they _are."

France stops abruptly, England not noticing until he walks straight into his back. Luckily, Francis still had a pretty firm grip on his hand, so England just flails for a couple seconds after the impact instead of just falling over completely. Smirking, France pulls him up so he can stand straight, guiding the boy over to his side. "Come on now, they're going to want to see you." He bumps the other gently with his hip. "Remember who you are, now. Chin up."

Still glowering, England stands up straighter next to France, bearing himself with all the proper dignity of his status that he can muster. The boy looks much too serious and Francis stifles a giggle, but it falls away as his eyes harden. Looking out towards the others, he steels his features into the handsome but cold look that England is as of yet unfamiliar with.

The others haven't noticed them yet, or are at least _pretending_ not to. Either way, it was time to present the boy to them, and he would do it properly. He steps forward, his free arm extended outwards towards them as the other held onto Arthur. His voice is warm and commanding, the kind of voice fitting for the adult England would one day want to be.

"Brother, sister, it has been too long."

'_Or perhaps not long enough.' _Francis is sure to never let that though cross his features, even if it crosses his heart.

They had been conversing with one another as he had approached, the two of them standing closely together: _too close_. His eyes narrow as he keeps his smile upon his face. At his greeting they had paused, his brother looking over quickly as the other leisurely took her time. She would not rush for him, nor did she for anyone.

Reina was looking terribly beautiful tonight (_'And when did she not?'_), with her dark, heavy curls rolling down her shoulders, most held back by ruby clasps that glittered darkly in the candlelight. A few errant whorls gently rested against her breast; his brother's hand had been resting gently upon her shoulder, his fingers brushing the hair softly.

Her dress was much more austere, a deep, blood red damask, rich in the fabric but ascetic in it's design that covered the full length of her arms and her neck. A single silver cross laid between her covered breasts, the crucifix glimmering reproachfully at the loud and bright revelers around them. Her eyes gazed over at him with a quiet look of bemusement.

France's brother was almost the opposite, his regalia more fit for a military exercise than for a banquet hall Francis noted with a slight feeling of displeasure. His mantle hung loosely around his shoulders, a sheathed sword slung low around his waist (as he had any business bringing it into _his_ palace). Both his mantle and tunic were bright and richly colored, the cheerful reds and blues odd compared to the plain military style cut he had chosen for his hair. If it was anyone other than his brother, he would have seen just another boorish brute of the military.

"Bienvenidos, _hermano_."

The woman is the first to speak, her eyes cast downward as her lips form a demure smile. The other is less refined, taking England off guard. "Francis, you prat, good to see you!" A strong, enthusiastic soldier's arm chuffs down upon France's shoulder, the gesture friendly in intent but eliciting a wince out of the smaller man. The younger pulls his arm back, grinning sheepishly at his ruffled brother; England notices that the woman continues to smile in her secret kind of way. "Er, sorry about that. I forgot that."

"Indeed, you did." A smile wears thinly on France's lips as he brushes off his shoulder, though he quickly resumes his bearing. "However, I would have liked you to have remembered the reason for our meeting, dear brother." He stops for a moment and looks around. "By the way, where is Lena?"

"Our darling sister, _Madalena_," the woman gently reprimands, her words heavy in a gentle sort of way, "is occupied at the moment." Her eyes are still downcast as she speaks, but England notices that the gesture is not submissive. "I believe within a few moments she shall returning to us. Are we to believe that _this_," she gestures towards England indifferently, "_es tu niño_?"

Francis nods, his old smile returning to his face. "Yes, dearest sister, this little one here would be my newest ally." France smiles down upon England and winks: the boy fight to keep the color out of his face. "Once our younger sister returns to us, I will introduce this little one properly."

"I see. Are you planning on holding onto him all night, brother?" The woman's head is cocked at a slight angle, the slightest hint of a dismissive tone coloring her lovely voice. "Are you expecting something to happen to him if you let go?"

"It never hurts to be safe, does it sister? The little one here," he pulls England a little closer, his smile still wide as his eyes slightly narrow, "needs to be looked after."

She moves a little closer to the two, her smile never wavering. "It would be a shame if something were to happen to it, would it not?"

France's eyes harden, but it's their brother who speaks first. "Ah, come on, stop talking like he's not even here!" He reaches out a hand, rubbing England's head as he smiles. "Can't help but be little, this one here. Both of you were once too, you know."

France scoffs. "Long before you were ever born, brother. At any rate, until our dearest Lena returns, may you please start us off, sister?"

She sighs prettily, as if patiently resigned to the task. "Very well then."

The woman steps forward, moving closer to the two before looking down at England with the same half smile that she had been wearing before. "Bienvenidos, niño. Soy la hermana mayor de tu,", she glances over at Francis, "'_amigo'_, y soy la nación de España."

Francis leans down towards him, whispering into his ear. "Your kings would call her and her country 'Spain', but I think her people's name for her is a little better." He winks conspiratorially towards him. "It's better for a woman. Prettier."

"Should I just let you finish for me, or should I continue?" She raises a delicate brow towards her brother, and Francis raises a hand in protest. "By all means, please continue." England watches as her lips quirk up into a smirk, but he can't see if her eyes do.

"Bueño. My name is Reina Torquemada de Galicia, nation of España. Eldest of the children of the Roman Empire." She follows this with a slight nod of her head, her hands sweeping out against the edges of her skirt as she formed a half curtsy, a smile playing upon the edge of her eyes as she finally makes direct eye contact with him.

"Such a pleasure to meet you, _child_."

When she smiles at him, it is hard for England to look at her. France apparently was only half-joking about her, and as badly as he wanted to bury his face against France's leg, he resisted.

"Aww, big sister, look at him!" Apparently his situation had not gone unnoticed. "He looks like he wants to hide from you, you should take it easy on little boys!" With this, France's brother laughed heartily; his siblings only smile politely until he finished, while England was too busy being mortified. Sensing his companion's discomfort, France pressed on. "Little brother, your turn?" he inquires, trying to get his youngest sibling back on track.

"Right, um…" The soldier needed a few moments to collect his train of thought, his face losing its adult look as he started acting more like a child. "Well, I'm a younger brother to France, though I don't look like I'm younger, though I am." He laughs, not seeming to mind as his sentences seemed to jumble together. "I am Justinian Isaura Constantine." He reaches a hand out to England, clasping the boy's tiny hand in his much larger grasp.

"I am the second son of Rome, and I am the legacy of my father's empire in the east, the Byzantine Empire." His smile widens on his face as he shook England's hand, half lifting the boy as he pumped his arm. "At you service, little one." he finished with mock solemnity.

England wasn't quite sure what to think of this one yet, but France's brother was much easier to face than his sister. Even as a child, England could sense the man was much different than the woman, with his open smile and dull, good humored and trusting eyes. Still, it wasn't bad, and he didn't look he pinched and hit like his own brothers (or bit like his sister), so that was ok.

_Maybe this won't be so bad._

England's broken out of his train of thought as France's eyes keep moving around. They keep darting around the room, and with each sweep his eyes seem to get a little darker and darker. Looking back at Reina (who is still smiling, and England still couldn't look straight at her), Francis finally speaks.

"_Hermana, __¿__D_ó_nde est_á_ tu hijo?"_

"_¿__Mi hijo? Lo siento hermano, pero no tengo un hijo." _

"_Reina." _Justinian warns lightly, but she pays him no mind. That demure smile is back as she averts her eyes, the edges seeming to hide some poorly concealed amusement.

"_Francisco, está usted hablando al niño? El está enfermo ahora, y no podía venir aquí."_ She moves her gaze back towards England; blushing, he looks down at his feet. Her smile widens as it reaches her eyes; in turn, France's narrow.

"_Enfermo, ¿realmente?" _France's hand tightens around England's. _"¿Es esta otra mentira?"_

"_¿__Mentira? ¿Qué otros hay de cierto?"_

Francis scoffs. _"Tu no parece gustarle la verdad, y nunca quiere que su hijo venir a mi, o de cualquier otra persona país, **sœur**."_

She laughs and it's a light, pretty sound. To England, everything she says sounds so pretty. _"Sí, yo no gusto eso, pero el niño está enfermo. Todos los días. Todos los días de todos los años de su vida. Una lástima, ¿no?"_

France's hold is reaching a painful level, and England looks up to Francis to protest. Francis' frame is rigid, his face twisted in anger as he stares at his sister. Reina is still sweetly smiling though, and the tension between the two of them is stifling. Worried, England looks up at the France's brother, hoping that he'll say something to make them stop.

However, Justinian remains silent. There's a look of uncertain confusion lightly marring his handsome face, as if he knows there's something he ought to contribute but can't quite think of what. It seems that he was just as much a spectator in this as England was, which didn't seem quite right.

Not if he was an adult too.

Nervous, England pulls on Francis' arm, trying to get the elder's attention. After what seems like forever, Francis finally looks down on him, and England recoils a little. There is a blankness on the elder's face, but there's also a coldness around Francis' eyes that looks more than a little like hate. Why he should be looking at Arthur with such a look on his face he doesn't know, but it's frightening him and he wishes he would stop.

"_Brother…"_

England feels someone passing behind him, the quiet words startling him. For half a second he forgets where he is and with whom, for a terrifying moment believing the words are aimed at him.

But they are not.

Almost as quickly as those thoughts come into his mind, they pass, leaving him wondering who had it been. He looks around but in the few seconds that have passed the voice has already moved along, the hushed presence already alighting upon Francis' other side.

"It is wonderful to see you again, _irmão_."

Slim, gracefully petite fingers wrap gently around Francis' arm, a quiet smile alighting upon the face of the young girl who now stands on the other side of him. His grip around England's hand tightens for the briefest of moments before loosening, the older man almost dropping the younger's hand. Looking up at Francis' face, Arthur can see his eyes begin to soften, loosing the hellish look that had been frightening him so. Francis' lips quirk up at the sides, a small smile forming on his lips as his attention diverts away from the woman to this girl.

Almost immediately, the air around them feels a little less suffocating, a little less frightening.

England twists around to look at her, wondering if this was the one who the others had been waiting for. The first thing that he notices about her is how small she is, her childish frame a far cry from the adult builds that her siblings bore. She's barely half a head taller than England himself, and he figures that she can hardly be much older.

Her long, dark mahogany hair is pulled away from her face by two thin braids that blend together in the back, letting most of her hair fall gracefully down her shoulders in gentle waves. The bronze skin that she bears is similar to that of older sister, and the girl seems to exude the same air of effortless elegance that Reina possesses and Francis attempts to obtain.

Yet, there was nothing in her face that made England feel compelled to look away. It felt similar to how it was when Francis held onto his hand.

"Ah, ma soeur," Francis' free hand brushes against her hair, falling down to wrap loosely around her shoulders, and pulls her closer into the circle that the other siblings formed. "We've been expecting you."

"Why'd you take so long, baby sister?" Byzantine seems to have come out of his stupor, smiling broadly at the smaller girl as he reaches out a hand to rest upon her hair. "Any longer and I would've thought you were lost. It would have been such a pain, having to rough up all of these little Frenchmen just to find out where you were." Francis throws a thin glare at his brother, but the girl's soft laughter keeps it from hardening.

"Forgive me, brother, I didn't mean to worry you. I suppose I got carried away within the crowd. It's so lovely to have such pleasant society around us." This last part she finishes with a nod towards Francis, politeness in every word that she spoke.

"Madalena, my darling, I could listen to your kind words for a thousand nights. However, I believe that some things must be taken care of first before we can do that." Francis' eyes glance over towards England, and nods his head towards the small boy. "Little Angleterre here has been dying to meet everyone. Be so kind as to make his acquaintance, since he could use some friends." England scowls up at Francis, but the elder just smiles back.

"Com prazer, brother."

She steps away from her brother, turning her face towards England. Her expression muted, but her hazel eyes are gentle. "Prazer em conhecê-lo. Eu sou Novinha Madalena Graça, though," she pauses, transitioning into English when she sees the confusion upon Arthur's face. "I prefer Madalena." She laughs softly. "I do not prefer formalities, and 'Novinha' is too formal for friendly use. I am second daughter of the Roman Empire." Hands clasped together, she bows her head gently. "Espero que possamos ser amigos since," she looks up at him kindly, "I think it would be lovely to be friends with you."

England stands there, his hand still encased in Francis', looking at her and unable to speak for a moment. It feels funny, hearing this sort of formal greeting from someone so young and so pretty; yet it is the sincerity in her voice that makes the color start to rise under his collar.

A nudge from Francis brings him back into the moment, suddenly realizing that the attention was focused back upon him. Four pairs of eyes from the older nations were set upon him, all having presented themselves and waiting for him to respond. It's unnerving.

"_Angleterre_," France encourages gently, his fingers rubbing against the back of England's hand. "it's your turn. Let them know who you are."

Swallowing thickly, England tries to find a way to start. All the time he had spent preparing for this moment (all of the night before he had spent trying to imagine this moment in his mind, trying out different approaches to presenting himself to the other nations) seems to have come to naught, since he realizes that he couldn't form the proper words in his head, let alone get them out of his mouth. He looks around at them for a few moments, stalling for in hopes that he would somehow reclaim his ability to speak.

Francis looks at him expectantly, patiently. His brother however quickly seems to be losing interest, a bored look creeping across his face. His eyes move towards the elder sister, quickly averting them again as he sees her looking at him. The half smile is still on her lips, but her eyes are watching him with a strange sort of intentness, more than a little disconcerting. A groan pulls him from his thoughts; Byzantine seems to have had enough, as if the whole proceedings had taken too long already.

"God damnit Francis, didn't you teach him how to talk?" The newly formed irritation in his voice makes England cringe, the other's face marred with careless aggravation. "We all know _who _he is, why are we even waiting here? Can't we do something else? It's not like I came here just to see you and your pet, you know."

"Perhaps you can keep your irritations to yourself, brother, since you are not the only one here on business." Reina's eyes never waver from England, though the target of her words is obvious. "You would also do well to watch your tongue, brother," she says sweetly, as a smile plays gently upon her lips, "least it rot off with your infantile blasphemy."

Without bothering to look at the wounded look upon her brother's face, the elder shifts her full attention back towards England, Reina's dark eyes carrying the briefest hints of annoyance. "Besides, I believe our brother," she makes a dismissive wave towards France, "is trying to make a point in having the child speak for himself, am I not correct? It should be fairly obvious…"

Francis sighs, looking back towards England with a tired look. For England, if anything this newest exchange just serves to make him feel worse, and if Francis wasn't still holding onto his hand he'd try and find someplace to hide. He's halfway ready to pull his hand free when he feels something brush against his other hand. Delicate fingers lace between his own as he finds himself looking up at the girl, _Madalena _as she calls herself, who had made her way over to him unnoticed.

"If you could," she starts quietly, her gentle voice soothing his distress, "would you like to tell me your name? It is the sort of thing friends should know about one another." She gives his hand a light squeeze, her words quietly passing towards him without applying any additional pressure to him. The feel of her fingers between her own is a quiet, wonderful sort thing. They were like silk, gently rubbing against his hand in delicate patterns. He finds himself forgetting that the other ones are there.

In a moment, he finds that he would like to try and speak.

"My name, it's Arthur. It's only Arthur." His tongue still feels dry in his mouth, but he's determined to continue. "I'm of- I mean, I _am _England. My people, they call me that. It's what I am, I know." He swallows thickly, having already come this far; her fingers move across the back of his hand yet again, and he goes on. "I'm happy to meet you. All of you." he adds quickly, his words awkward but doggedly honest. He looks up at the rest of them, and he catches a slight gleam of approval in Francis' eyes.

"Just one name, huh?" Justinian snorts, his good humor sinking back into his voice. "Maybe he's not big enough for more yet!"

England frowns at this. '_Like I'd ever want Scotland's name. Or Francis'...'_

"I'm sure that, in time," his smaller sister interrupts, "he will find a one suitable to use as his surname, as had we." Justinian just laughs and Madalena joins him, though it is a much more delicate sound than her brother's. Almost belatedly, England realizes that he is still holding onto her hand. Embarrassed, he tries to let go, but she is yet to concede her hold

"Well then," France interjects, pulling the attention back onto himself, "I think it is about time for this conversation to be moving on a bit. I do believe dearest Reina and Justinian came here on business as well as to see little Angleterre's smiling face." A scowl once again alights upon England's face, though there is a trace of confusion upon it as well. Francis ignores this, pulling the two aside as he looks over at his younger sister.

"Would my darling baby sister be so kind as to attend to our youngest member of this party? I regret having to leave him, though it will only be for a while."

England looks up at him with a stricken face, but Francis is already pulling away from him, a look of friendly calm plastered across his face. _'You bastard, you promised, you promised!' _England tugs harshly against Francis' arm, a frightened, almost desperate look demanding the other's attention. Begrudgingly, Francis looks down upon the other, and while there's a slight apologetic look on Francis' face, it just serves to make England feel more betrayed.

"Madalena?" The girls grip tightens (though not painfully) around England's hand, and she gently pulls the younger boy closer towards her. "Of course, brother. We will be in the garden, until the rest of you have finished your business." She words are quite, but her grip is firm as she delicately begins to lead England away, guiding young nation towards the gardens that laid within the palace's courtyard. He tries to pull back, but she doesn't let him: almost before he realizes it, she has already pulled him across the room.

England manages to look back once, Madalena already pulling him through the main doorway as he takes one final look at his unwelcomed benefactor. All that he can see of Francis is his retreating back as he heads back towards his other siblings; somehow, it looks smaller in the dimming light.

However, he can see the other two perfectly well, their faces still turned towards their brother and still in his line of sight. The smiles that had been on there faces when he left were still there, and yet they were not. The dull look is back on the man's face ['_And was he a man, or more like a boy?' England wondered_], but the laughter that had been in his eyes is gone, replaced with a strange, brutish sort of pride. He seemed a stranger to him, not the smiling man who had ruffled England's hair with such warmth in his eyes.

_And with the woman…_

She's still as beautiful as ever, and the same pretty half smile is still upon her face. It's like it's always been there, since before they had come there-

-_since before he was born_-

That thought comes from nowhere, and leaves just as quickly as it came. It only stays in his mind for a split second, but he shivers all the same.

No, that's not it. For the first time, he notices that even though it is similar, it really wasn't like a smile at all, not like the ones Francis gave him. He wants to look at her but he can't, as if something is trying to warn him against looking at such alien beauty. As if something was wrong…

For a moment he was afraid for Francis, with the way his siblings eyes looked upon him, and that smile that wasn't like a smile at all. The way he felt around her it felt like, it was almost like, like…

…_William…_

_But worse…._

A cold shiver runs down his spine at the thought of his eldest brother, and at the thought that something [_someone_] who could possibly be worse than him made Arthur feel the need towards run back to Francis. What he would do, he doesn't quite know, but he has to do something, anything to protect Francis because even if he is a stupid git that acts like a girl, he's the only one he has in the world.

He tries to call out, but Francis is already too far away, and the noise of the crowd is suffocating loud, drowning out his voice as if he had never spoken. Francis' back keeps getting smaller and smaller, and the boy finds himself being pulled out of the room, and then there is only the cold of the passageway surrounding him. He keeps trying to pull free, and if the other notices she ignores this, and after what seems like an age (but really only a few minutes), he finds himself being lead into a courtyard. He tries once more to pull away from the girl, a sound of protest in his throat, but the petite hand holding onto his own keeps its embrace.

"You do not have to worry about Francis, Arthur." Her words are quiet, so gently soft-spoken, and his internal agony prevents him from realizing that she is speaking at first. Stiffening, he refuses to turn around at first, dragging an oversized sleeve (which was a stupid, light green color that Francis had picked out for him) across his eyes, unwilling to believe that he was wiping away unshed tears and just wiping the grim from the corridor from his face. After a few moments, he feels her light fingers begin to rub against the back of his hand, pausing only to pull him closer to himself.

He finally looks back at her, and finds that she is patiently watching him, making no move to continue her speech until he found it in himself to answer her. Besides the patience, there was a gentle openness in her face, devoid of the malice that the other two had held that had frightened him so. Eventually, she continues on, her eyes kindly downcast.

"I realize that this may be hard for you to understand, but you do not have to fear for him. The way they act amongst themselves," she shakes her head softly, "it is just something you are not fit to see. " She smiles gently, looking down at their hands. "Sometimes it seems like they forget how others would see them. Justinian likes to act aggressive towards Francis whenever our sister is around, so don't mistake him as a threat. Brother Francis will be fine."

"I'm not worried about that jerk." England huffs, his indignation temporarily overshadowing his concern after having his emotions exposed so plainly and embarrassingly. Unconsciously, his arm comes back over his face, still rubbing with stubborn intent.

"I never said that you did." she answers softly, with just enough kindness in her voice not to seem sarcastic [or teasing, as Francis loved to do to England]. "I was just mentioning that, in the case that you should believe that you would have need to worry, that there would be no need for it. My brother is not as delicate as he may like to act, though I am sure you may already know that."

England frowns, confusion joining into the fray between his worry and embarrassment. She turns, gently pulling him along into the garden as he clumsily followed. It was similar to how Francis could lead him along as if he was dancing, with England always seeming to tumble along. It was embarrassing…and comforting.

"You don't have to hold my hand, you know." Is the cutting statement England finally comes up with to break the silence. The quiet was nice, but sharing [and enjoying] the silence with someone whom he barely knew was a little strange. He had never been this close to someone his age before (his horror of a sister excluded), and certainly never to a girl. Ever.

Her response is as politely prim as ever. "Actually, I do need to. My brother Francis asked that I remain with you. If I were to let go, I would not be adhering to his wishes."

"I don't remember Francis asking you to do anything like that." England grumbles, hating the feeling of being babied, especially by someone barely older than himself. "Didn't you all just get here?" And he would have known, since Francis had been flitting around the palace for the past few weeks, committing himself to every detail of planning and pulling an unwilling England along whenever he could.

"I arrived with my sister yesterday morning. Besides," she turns to look back at him again, her hazel eyes warm in the starry night, "I understand when brother must require something from me. I am happy to help him as I can." She looks up to the sky, gazing at the half moon raising high above them. "It is nice to be able to see my brothers." She nods her head to the side, turning her eyes away from him. "Perhaps Francis a little more. I see less of him."

England has nothing to add to this, and quietly lets her lead him to a bench. There are far fewer people out here than inside, most of the revelers preferring to get drunk on the wine and company than to enjoy the tranquility of the gardens. It was nicer out here, but he still wished Francis hadn't of left him. _He had promised…_

"Do you miss your home?"

It takes a few seconds for England to realize that she's speaking again. "What, I mean…huh?" was his elegant reply. She takes it in stride. "Francis told me that the island that you live on is nice. Open. Not quite as bright as the mainland, but still pretty, in its own way." She cocks her head. "Do you like it better here?"

The question is not hard, but it takes Arthur a while to compose his thoughts without his guardian by his side. "I think it's nice here. It's pretty." He looks up at her, and looks away as he feels a blush growing in his cheeks. "I like my home, and it's wonderful,"

And it was, because it was home. Also, even with the _others,_ it seemed like it was where he could be safest in this world. "…but it's lonely-not that I'm lonely!" he quickly adds. "It's just…it's nice having someone _want _to be around."

She smile becomes a little sweeter, and his face burns a little brighter.

"I like your big brother and sister." he adds, trying to keep his color down, finding himself speaking more than he normally ever would with a stranger (because that was what she was even if she was…his blush became even deeper). "He seemed kind of loud, but seemed nice to me. Your older sister's…nice too…pretty…" The last words come out as a mumble, England embarrassed by them almost before they leave his mouth. Madalena nods gently, but she doesn't raise her eyes.

"I agree. My sister is a very lovely woman. She always has been, and she always will be." Her eyes move to look down at their hands again, a half smile upon her face. "I'm sorry if little brother was loud. Sometimes, he seems to forget what it's like to be small." England finds himself nodding along, agreeing with her words before his mind snags upon something that doesn't seem quite right.

"What a second, you mean your, little…_brother_?" She nods, as if he had just asked her if the grass growing around them was, in fact, green.

"Justinian is the baby of our family, indeed. I thought Francis would have told you that." Her words are reasonable enough, but the boy has trouble reconciling the fact that that giant, enormous (if normally friendly) brute could be younger than this small, pretty little girl. "As a matter of fact," she continues, nonplussed at the blank look upon his face, "only Reina, Francis, and myself are even close in age. Justinian's only about a thousand years old." She frowns for a minute. "A little less, actually. Reina is around twice that."

He almost wants to ask how old she is, but after a moment's thought decides against it. He likes her (for a stranger, that is), and didn't want to see her like the others. "Francis says you have siblings, but that I'm not allowed to pry about them." Her fingers return to making patterns against the back of his hand, and the statement is somehow less upsetting than it should have been. "I would like to know one thing, though, if it is alright with you, my new friend?"

He nods, unthinkingly answering the question truthfully since the gentle caresses keep his mind at ease. She shifts closer to him, laying his hand upon her lap as she smiles at him. "Do you think Francis' are better?"

He lets his eyes close, tiredness unexpectedly tugging at his eyelids as he takes a deep breath as memories float past in his mind unbidden, half-formed dreamlike creations pulling at him in this garden so far from his home.

_He though of the cold, and of all the loneliness he had felt, with an island nation his home that kept him so far away from much of the world. _

_Of a tall young man, with light hair and even paler eyes, whose cold smiles only spoke of hatred and disgust, and whose hands only hurt._

_Of a quiet, dark figure standing behind the elder, whose hair covered his eyes that did not condone nor condemn the cruelties that took place around him._

_Of a pretty little girl whose hair shone like fire and whose laugh danced across his skin. Of her reaching out her hands to him, her smile, her fingers itching for his blood.._

_Was that what he called his family?_

_Was it?_

_**No.**_

"I think," He smiles dreamily, his breathes leveling as he feels himself drifting away from consciousness. "I think I like all of you so much better." His head lolls on her shoulder. "I think I'll like you the best of all." He's too tired to realize just how embarrassing what he had just said, and without noticing it he drifts off towards sleep, his overstressed mind finally calling it a night. He had never fallen asleep outside of his country without Francis, but that doesn't stop him this time, and she doesn't mind.

She shifts just a fraction to the side, letting him rest more comfortably without their hands breaking their hold. It is just a minor thing, but Francis' orders had been firm, and there was no chance this night that little England would be stumbling into her siblings' business. Reina hadn't cared whether her younger sister or this boy had been there when they fought, but Francis wanted to preserve some peace of mind for England in Europe, and the boy watching Reina at her worst would destroy that.

Reina was angry at brother Francis, for another one of the countless reasons she could find fault in him, and with Justinian by her side (as he always was. Sometimes Madalena hated him for it, and hated herself even more), tonight would be harsh on Francis. No doubt they were already fighting, off in some corner of the palace where no one else could see them, where they wouldn't have to wear pleasant masks for each other anymore.

Her free hand reaches out towards his tired head, her finger running through his unruly hair with gentle patience.

'_Things never really change, do they little one?'_

There was little comfort that she could give to her poor brother, but at least she could care for his charge. The poor boy needed some comfort, anyways, judging by how quickly he attached himself to her. It was sweet, in a heartbreaking kind of way.

_'It hurts to be lonely.' _

She knew how that felt. It was worse when you were lonely with the ones you loved, and sometimes loving was more painful than hate, not that this little boy would know of such things yet. _'And hopefully,' _she thinks as her fingers grace themselves against his cheek, _'you never will.'_

'_I like all of you so much better.'_

There's a smile on her face, recalling the words of this sweet, horribly foolish little boy. _'I think I'll like you the best of all.' _She pulls him a little closer, and her heart hurts a little more. "But I don't want you to like me, little one." Her whisper is quiet, but it is enough to make him shift in his sleep in her arms, struggling to get closer to her warmth. She lets him, as she knew she would. "I don't think you quite understand what you're saying just yet."

She leans her head back, looking up at the stars as the faint sounds of the festivities still surrounded them. Such a quiet, beautiful night, where Reina was pitting Justinian against his brother, little brother eager to fight a war for her that he did not quite understand just yet.

_Things will never change._

_They never have, and they never will._

"For your sake, little one," she whispers softly into his hair, "I hope you realize you are wrong."

* * *

**Historical Notes: **At this time, the Byzantine Empire was still flourishing in the east, the 'rival half' of the legacy of the Roman Empire (from the Western half, modern France, Spain, etc). France was the main rival/contender for control of the Christian world against the Byzantine Empire for centuries. This would last until the fall of Constantinople to the Ottoman Empire in 1453 AD.

Spain was in the process of reclaiming the Iberian peninsula from Islamic control, with much of the southern portion the peninsula still under Islamic rule (in 712 AD was the primary invasion, and ever since there was a struggle with both sides gaining and losing ground for centuries). Portugal, as a nation, did not quite exist yet, since it was still a part of the former Hispania/Iberian peninsula with Spain. It wasn't declared as a country until 1128 AD, and not officially until 1143 AD. The setting for their 'party' is at what was the early _La Conciergerie._

**Author's Notes: **Reina's son [modern Spain] is mentioned but not present. The whole exchange between France and his sister was about Francis not trusting his sister with the well-being of her son. He has good reason to doubt her. As vaguely mentioned in chapter 3, the boy's father isn't exactly an upstanding member of their society.

**España: **Reina Torquemada de Galicia, eldest child of Rome.  
**France: **Francis Bonnefoy, guardian of England.  
**Portugal: **Novinha Madalena Graça, land controlled by España.  
**Byzantine: **Justinian Isaura Constantine, youngest child of Rome.

**Scotland:**'William'. The eldest of the Celts.  
**Wales:** Second oldest of the Celts.  
**Ireland: '**Nina', same age as England. The 'Little Horror'.  
**England: **Arthur [Kirkland], rejected by his older 'siblings', ward of France.

**Francis and Reina's conversation: **Sister, where is your son? - My son? Sorry brother, but I have no son…Francis, are you talking about the child? He is ill now, and could not come here. - Sick, really? Is this another lie? - Lie? What other truth is there? - You do not seem to like the truth, and never want your child to come to my or anyone else's country, sister. - Yes, I do not like that, but the child is sick. Everyday. Everyday of every year of his life. A pity, huh?

Oh Reina, why so crazy?


	8. Bhrātr

**Everlasting Night**

**Title: **Prelude to Conflict  
**Chapter 8: **Bhrātr**  
Characters: **Kemet and Persia, slight Aryan and India.  
**Rating: **PG-13.**  
Summary: **Some problems are best dealt with alone. Other times, you need your sister.

_Thebes, 2,000 BC._

"So nice to see you again, sister."

Her words float pleasantly across the room, almost lyrical in their delivery. The room itself is a lovely match for the voice, simply yet elegantly arranged as the beams from the noonday sun illuminate the interior with a soft glow. Elaheh pauses at the doorframe long enough to give parting orders to the captain of her private guard, dismissing him and his men as she entered her sister's chamber.

The elder was tastefully sprawled out along a divan, her kohl lined eyes languidly watching the other's arrival. Her hair hung loose around her shoulder, the jet black curls gleaming in the sunlight. Warm sienna eyes watched her arrival with light amusement, the color complementing the dark olive skin that was shared between the two. The woman before her was lovely, beautiful. Perfect.

Was pissing her off beyond all reason.

_Two weeks…_

Two weeks, of desert riding, of sand and wastelands and the blinding noonday sun. Two weeks, during the summer months, where travel across the desert was a nightmare at best and suicide at worst.

All of that, all just to see this queen amongst queens.

'_The next time I do something like this I'd better be invading this arrogant bitch.'_

Naqada's pristine white robes, draped elegantly around her supple body, were a firm contrast to Elaheh's, whose cloak was still matted with dust and grime from the ride in. As she sat down on a low couch opposite her sister, Persia wondered if this was some sort of reflection upon themselves, a display of Naqada's perfect uselessness and her own practical coarseness.

Not that she cared, of course.

What was more pressing was the fact that she had not bathed in a week, and had been hoping to at least wipe the worst of the filth off of herself before meeting with the other. How thoughtful of sister, to request her audience so soon after her arrival.

It's not like it was for the older woman's amusement.

_Of course not._

Still, it was no surprise. Sister would never change. It had probably been a thousand years since Naqada had allowed dirt to come upon her person, or had done anything _remotely _resembling physical labor. Having built her empire up from the barren desert sands, it seemed she had exhausted her desire for drudgery. Elaheh reaches out towards one of the elaborate goblets her sister favored so much that are resting upon the table separating the two. Within a moment the cool liquid slides down her throat, the water tasting better than whatever wine her sister was imbibing.

_If only their enemies were just as lazy…_

"Well, aren't you going to greet me?" Naqada raises a delicate brow, her eyes shimmering with poorly concealed amusement. Resigned to the fact that she will have to play this game, _yet _again, Elaheh sighs. With only minimal hesitation, she rises to her feet, an irritated look flitting across her face before it transforms into a look of dire seriousness..

"Oh most benevolent and honored sister, words cannot properly express the multitude of emotions I feel overwhelming me at this moment. Weeks in the desert have not prepared me to look properly upon your beauty, and it will be days before I can feel the full gratitude of being permitted into your presence. It is truly wonderful to be allowed to see you, my most beautiful and most noble sister." She finishes this with a half bow, one hand fisted above her heart. Straightening up, she begins to walk back towards her seat, pausing to turn around.

"By the way, I hope you drown in your bath tonight."

Naqada laughs as her sister sits back down, a look of pleasure splayed across her face. "My dearest sister, you haven't changed at all. You shouldn't spend so much time around common men, you really lack any of the graces that are expected of your position." She pauses for a moment, bringing her cup of wine to her lips before continuing. "If I didn't know you were my sister, I would think you were just another one of those low beasts you have mulling about outside. You know, the ones you call _your men_. It's disappointing just having to look at you, to see what a female can be debased into."

Elaheh leans back against her seat, stretching her tired limbs as her lips form an annoyed smirk. "Sorry I fail to rise to your standards, oh imperial one. I was really aiming to arouse you this time around, really. Besides," She raises a mud-caked boot upon the table between them, her smirk widening as the other frowns, "I'd rather hang around my soldiers all day than spend any time with _your_ men. I don't see how emasculating them boosts their usefulness. When does cutting off bits of them help?"

"Had you any understanding of the world outside of the battlefield, I'm sure you could see." Naqada takes another sip from her cup, letting the fragrant wine distract her from her sister's crudeness. "Have you come all this way just to dirty my palace with your presence? I could have just let some dogs in and accomplished the same task."

"Yeah, like I enjoy being out here. I'll get to that in a minute." Elaheh takes another drag from her cup, finishing off what remained with a single swallow. "By the way, which one is this anyways? Are you that easily bored that you have to build a new palace every few decades? Wouldn't think you had the energy to get up without someone carrying you." She shakes her head. "So wasteful."

"What, and let the slaves be idle?" A finger makes circles around the rim on her glass, the lacquered nail gleaming in the sunlight. "And may I add, I do _not_ order palaces built so often. I am not wasteful, I just have quality taste. It's a few every century as I desire, nothing that extraordinary." Her eyes move back towards her sister, her look sobering a bit.

"I do not see what is wrong in reaffirming the people's obedience to the kingdom." She continues, turning her face away from Elaheh. "They need to remember their loyalty, and using the Gods is just one way to keep them in line." She lets out a small laugh, pressing her fingers to her lips. "It's not like things are any different than with you. Your people are just dirtier."

"Ah yes, the cleanliness of your blood. Such a shame that inbreeding didn't catch as well as it did here."

Elaheh's comment is met by a smile, though the eyes above the lips shine dully with annoyance. There's silence now, thick and uncomfortable. Persia helps herself to another serving of water as her sister slowly finishes her wine. Questions hang silently in the air, and neither one seems willing to break the uneasy peace.

A quarter of an hour goes by.

Then another. Persia's eyes are staring hard at the ground., he voice barely raising above a whisper.

"He's gone, you know."

"Of course." It's the subject neither one of them wants to talk about, but it's the reason that Persia rode over a thousand miles in the desert to come here.

Kemet's answer isn't a question, and Persia hesitates to go on. Frowning, the elder sets down her wine. "Am I to assume, that there is some reason as to why this this is important, or were you under the presumption that this little tidbit of information would render me utterly devastated, and therefore in dire need of your assistance? If so, I fear I may be disappointing you now."

Persia's lips quirk up in a smirk, but there's no humor in her face. It is little more than a shudder briefly passing across her face, an unconscious tremor of repressed emotion. She brings her leg down. "He took off, about a month and a half ago. Didn't take much with him. Less than a hundred men, just about all of them from the western edge of my lands. Loyal to him, the fools."

She half raises the cup to her lips before hesitating, putting the vessel back on the table before she clasped her hands together, letting her fingers interlace tightly. "Is probably banking on the idea that more of them will follow." She swallows hard. "They may."

Kemet brushes the last part off. "What else did he take with him? Anything of consequence, besides a pathetic little army of savages? I must say, I am not impressed with little brother."

Persia shakes her head in negation. "Almost nothing else. A few religious scrolls, but nothing important. Some provisions, but mostly what they could carry. They took off in the middle of the night, without any sort of fuss or warning. Must have been planning it for a while…" Her eyes flicker up towards her sister, wondering if she would be reacting this way if he had fled from _her _kingdom_._ "He just, _left_."

"And good riddance." Naqada leans back against the cushions, covering her eyes with the back of her hand. "Anyways, it was only a matter of time before he ran off, the little bastard. He must have been suffering so _horribly_, being a parasite for so long. I'm surprised that he found the will to go on." Her lips purse before she moves on, her hand still over her eyes.

"It goes without saying, that he's heading east, isn't it?" Persia closes her eyes and nods slightly, making no other move to reply.

A harsh barking sound fills the room, the repulsive laughter at odds with Kemet's perfectly painted face. "I knew it, I knew! I knew the little bastard would run away again! All the way back to that filthy little darkling, that little _dog _that he found the first time he ran off!" She moves her hand down from her face to her chest, letting it rest above the swell of her breasts as more obscene laughter escapes her throat. She looks over at Persia, lewd pleasure in her eyes.

"Come now, baby sister, don't pretend that you're upset that this happened! I know you couldn't stand the sulky little brat anymore than I could."

"…that's not the point."

Naqada lets out an exasperated sigh, her sister's despondency interfering with her elation. "I don't see what you're so upset for. He's gone, so his putrid, sniveling little face won't be underfoot anymore. On top of that, he's embarking on a fool's journey, chasing some primitive little darkling from who-knows-where across thousands of miles of wasteland with not enough men to even wage a proper campaign against a village of farmers."

She shrugs and continues. "It's just a matter of time before he winds up dead, with his bones being picked clean by scavengers. It'll be like he never existed." She smiles. "It's for the best." Still, looking at her younger sister's face, she can still see doubt.

"That's not really good enough for me, sister."

Elaheh leans forward, settling her elbows upon her knees as her chin rests above her hands. "I don't like this, I don't like any of this. I don't like the fact that he's off on his own. We don't know what he's doing now, or where he is. This isn't the kind of position I want to be in, having to wonder about this, to not _know_."

"Elaheh, dear, he'll be dead before the year is don-"

"I should have killed him when I still had the chance."

There's silence in the room again, and there are no words that can quite properly fill it this time. Naqada lays back down, sighing as she turns her back towards her sister, her good mood properly killed. The younger doesn't bother looking up at her, letting her forehead rest against her knuckles. Time passes, and neither one moves from their positions.

They had spent thousands of years together in their youth, before words like 'brother' or 'sister' existed. Over the years, they have been able to bind their thoughts together, letting them feel into the other's minds and thoughts as the sigil was wrought over the millennia. It was through this that Kemet sought to speak now.

'_We don't have to worry about him. He won't survive in the east.'_

'_And what if he does?'_

Naqada keeps her back turned, letting her fingers run against the soft fabric of the cushions as she prepares her reply. It's a little easier, talking this way. There was no need for pride when they speak within their minds.

'_And if he does…then so what? He gets to live the rest of his life, obsessed with some girl who isn't even a woman yet, who's more of a dog than a human? Let him go. As long as he never returns, things will be fine.'_

But it's not fine.

'_If he comes back…If he comes back I will kill him. If I ever see his face again I will have to. I don't trust him. I won't make the same mistake twice.'_

Naqada's body shakes with silent, honest laughter. Elaheh can hear it in her head, the beautiful noise soothing her mind like a cool hand caressing the back of her skull. _'Yes, yes, we'll kill him if he ever returns. I'll be there, right alongside you.' _She turns back towards her sister, waiting for her to raise her head up so she could meet her eyes. When the younger finally does, her smile is gentle.

"Forgive me if I believe we should do something other than spending the rest of our lives worrying over something that will never happen. You're never going to amount to anything like this."

Persia lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding, letting her hands drop between her knees. "Oh, you mean turn out like you?"

The spell is broken, and her sister laughs.

* * *

**Historical Notes: **This takes places during the height of the Egyptian Empire, during the Middle Kingdom that spanned from 2080 to 1640 BC. During the 11th dynasty (in power at this time), Egypt/Kemet was ruled out of Thebes, which resided in the Upper Kingdom (in the south of present-day Egypt). The Persian Empire didn't quite exist as a rival at this point, not reaching prominence until the next millennium. Here, Persia mocks the eunuchs and royal inbreeding of Ancient Egypt. The Indo-Iranians came into Southern Asia (Pakistan and northern India) around the second millennium BC, bringing with them part of what would be the basis for Hinduism. 'Bhrātr' is ancient Persian for 'brother'.

**Author's Notes: **This takes place almost directly after Aryan leaves Western Asia for good, taking off for the East [see chapter 1]. Due to the relatively tiny force he has with him, it would take a couple of centuries to build up a force large enough and loyal enough to finally invade the far east, where the 'darkling' lives.


	9. Al Andalus

**Everlasting Night**

**Title: **Prelude to Conflict  
**Chapter 9: **Al Andalus**  
Characters: **Ottoman [in his pre-empire days], the Caliphate, and España.**  
Rating: **Hard R. Violence and rape.**  
Summary: **Betrayal and violence mark the invasion of the Iberian peninsula. 711 AD.

_7th__ month of the 92nd year of the Hijri Calendar, Northern coast of the Berber Kingdoms  
_

He couldn't wait to get out of this country.

It was nice, he supposed, in the same way painted wares and trick animals were nice. Azure and saffron colored pots and a donkey in the market that can tap its hoof four times when asked what 2 and 2 added to. Nice, in the same useless kind of way in that the pot broke just like any other one when dropped, or how the donkey was killed for it's meat when the owner fell upon hard times. It was all, all…

_Unnecessary_

Simple enough of a word, but concise. It summed up everything that he hated about the world, and everything he stood against. _Unnecessary_ was all of the bleeding hearts who wanted peace, a peace that only ended with their slaughter as their enemies fell upon them.

_Or their friends…_

All of this, all of this was completely, and utterly, _unnecessary._ Looking out over the coast, his thoughts drift back to when his orders were received.

* * *

_Weeks before…_

"I understand if you stray a bit farther along the coast. I once lead a reconnaissance team across the straight not long after the Empire's collapse, and it's hard not to want to explore up there. It is lovely territory, and the people in the villages along the coast I visited were pleasant. Different perhaps, but lovely."

A dark hand reaches down towards the table, the ebony fingers wrapping along the stem of the goblet. Baris' eyes follow it, grateful for any kind of distraction as he awaited the end of this briefing. He wondered if the Caliphate loved to hear the sound of his own voice, or if he actually believed in the drivel he was speaking.

He didn't know which one was worse.

"Nevertheless, it would be better not to cross over, not at this point of time anyways. There is a lot of unrest, and more than a little bit of tension. It's not something that I would want you to get involved with, since any intrusion would probably be seen as an act of aggression. I do not want a simple intelligence mission be seen as an act of war. Do you understand me?"

He stands there, waiting to be dismissed. A few moments pass, and he realizes the other requires an answer.

"Of course." he answers levelly, doing little to keep the boredom out of his voice. "I wouldn't dream of anything else."

The Caliphate's gaze looks over him, a quiet look of disappointment in his gray eyes. "I hope that you understand the seriousness of the situation. The northern region is unstable, and to antagonize any of the local clan lords would just incite further conflict. We will act as a police force if necessary, but not as an invading army. I wish to keep our people, both the soldiers and civilians alike, on the right side of the will of Allah."

"Of course, my lord. We wouldn't want to sleep with bad consciousness, would we?"

"Please bear in mind," Rahman continues, trying to ignore the other's belligerence, "that I am trusting you with this because I believe that you are capable of controlling your, _baser urges_." He pauses for a moment, bringing his fingers together below his chin. "I believe we are entering a time frame, in where we will be able to enjoy a peace with our neighboring powers, a peace that has not been seen before in this part of the world. This peace depends upon cooperation between our rival nations, and to begin that we must be the first to extend our good will." He looks up at Baris, maintaining eye contact. "I believe that you are capable of carrying out this mission without any objections. Do you understand?"

Baris takes a moment to answer, wondering if he's really expecting any other kind of answer. "Of course, my lord. I will carry out your orders without question."

"Very well then." The other one exhales lightly, as if a weight has been taken off of his chest. A relieved smile hints at the edge of his lips, and Baris can't help but feel disgust. "Be sure to carry out your duties to the best of your abilities. Should there be a conflict with the northern tribes, I expect you to defend yourself but to disengage as soon as possible. You are dismissed."

Baris bows slightly, turning away as his feet begin to carry him from the throne room.

"And Baris?"

He stops, looking over his shoulder at the young man. Rahman's posture is still stiff, his profile regal in its bearing. Nonetheless, his smile has worked its way across his lips, the warmth gleaming gently in his eyes.

"Both of us will be waiting for your return."

* * *

_Present_

Baris breathes in the salty air, the sea's warm breeze coming over him. '_Of course he would say that.'_ It was a rather cheap shot, bringing the girl into the conversation. It had been several months since he had seen her, though it wasn't that he cared. He had been in charge of her in the years following her mother's death, a reluctant but diligent guardian. It had been a few centuries since the other man had risen to power, the Caliphate's lands eclipsing his own in the time before the fall of the great scourge.

Since that time, Rahman had taken the girl as his charge as Baris was rendered his subordinate. Outwardly, he said it was because the other could benefit from not having to watch over a child, since it was obvious that Baris was born to be a soldier. Privately, it was that the Caliphate didn't trust the other around children.

_Especially women_.

Baris smirks. Naturally, the good man of the desert would not trust him, _oh no_, not with a _child_. Not with _Naqada's _child. He would trust him with his armies, but not with a little girl. And of course, he had no rights over the child, no rights over the child who had fled across the wastelands to him when her mother's corpse was still warm. No rights over the child who, _by all rights, _should have been his…

None at all.

Like it mattered. It was better not to have a brat underfoot anyways, much better to have no one to account for on days such as this one. He supposed it was just the pretension that pissed him off the most.

Rahman had apparently appointed himself the defender of the young and weak, the guardian of peace, _'the servant of the merciful'_ god whom he had devoted himself to. Pathetic. The only reason why he was able to hold onto [_to cling onto_] such ideals because he was the most powerful force in the region.

For now.

Baris' thoughts are interrupted as one of his men returns to him. He had sent the man out as a scout, needing some more information on the layout of the castle grounds that he would be storming before the end of the day. Most of his men were already in place, scattered across the area as he prepared their invasion.

It was almost a shame that this wouldn't be a much of a conflict. He had left the Caliphate in Damascus months ago, leading a pittance of an army (a '_guard force_') across Aṣ-Saḥrā´, all on Rahman's orders. He hadn't minded. It was because that what Rahman sometimes forgot, was that he may be the soul of his nation, but his nation was ruled by men.

Men who cared more for their lives than they ever had for their souls.

By the time he had reached the Berber tribes in the west, he had already met up with the general Tariq, Tariq ibn Ziyad. The general, and his garrison of men, had been sent to join Baris as he made his journey westward, all on the orders of Al-Walid, the Caliph. The _actual_ lord of Rahman's lands. The man's father hadn't cared about expanding westward, but his son did. All the Caliph had to do was promise Baris one thing, just one _tiny _thing, and he would lead his troops across the strait into Iberia. Just one thing.

_One, tiny thing…_

"Are we ready sir?" A smile curves along his lips. It was nice to hear one of the Caliphate's men speaking to him that way, it was good to hear the quiet deference and awe in the general's voice. It was something that he was coming to hear more and more often from the soldiers and governors who were supposed to pledge allegiance to the Caliphate. The way they talked to him, the way they looked at him, it was enough to make up for being made a servant in the other's house.

'_Good chance ever getting them to look at you that way, old friend.'_

"Of course. Send the message to the ships in Ceuta. Send as many men as you need."

The man steps away and bows to him, not as deep as he would with the Caliphate, but with a genuine respect that Rahman was seeing less and less directed towards him. It was amusing, really. The sun was slowly rising above the horizon, a red haze setting across the land from the sea. In a few hours, the land would still be red, though not from the sun.

'_It's time to wash this sin clean, with his blood…'

* * *

_

_Afternoon_

He really wished they had put up more of a fight; it was almost an insult to him and his men, cutting through the feeble defenses that were presented to them. However, he was not foolish: he would take and exploit every opportunity presented to him, with a grateful indifference to whatever forces conspired to aid him. As he made his way along the castle's passageways, he began to feel a little light-headed, the stench beginning to drag on his mind.

It was almost unbearable.

He had left his men by the mid afternoon hour, content in their work as they obliterated every able man who stood in their way. He had left Tariq with specific orders, orders not too dissimilar to the ones the Caliphate had given him before he left his palace all those months ago.

'_Do not commit treachery or deviate from the right path.'_

'_You must not mutilate dead bodies.'_

'_Neither kill a child, nor a woman, nor an aged man.'_

'_Do not violate the laws of the Quran with regard to women and children.'_

All of them were fine, sensible rules. None of them, of course, applied to Baris.

The castle itself wasn't much to behold, not in terms of defense at least. With most of the men having gone downwards into the neighboring city, desperately trying to restrain the onslaught brought upon them, there were few men left guarding the grounds. The two he had encountered were young, inexperienced, still more boy than man. They hadn't been worth using a proper sword against, so he had merely slit their throats with a knife. There hadn't been a point in hiding the bodies, since he would be gone before any aid would come.

That was then.

Since then, he had killed seven more men, all servants and guards. He could feel the fear emanating out of all of them, the chaos along the coasts driving them into a frenzy: in such close quarters, they had never stood a chance The one woman he had encountered, a maid by look and dress, had fainted dead away at the sight of him (he had never bothered to wipe off the blood from the first two guards). He had debated with himself for a moment, and then had walked away. He had more important matters to tend to.

Even in the courtyard he could feel her, the stench that was _Rome's _scent somehow manifesting in a physical form. It was bad enough out there, and in the cramped corridors it was even worse. It was a foul, suffocating sensation, robbing him of his breath and diluting his senses. Through all of this, however, he was still able to concentrate on the task at hand.

It seemed like days as he made his way, inch by inch, each step poisoning his body as he made his way through. Had he been a lesser man, he would have stopped his advance long ago; however, he wasn't here just for himself, and after what seemed like an eternity he finally found what he was looking for. A plain wooden door separated himself from the final room in the castle, from the tower that overlooks the city which is currently being painted with blood.

He opens it, with neither lock nor barrier to bar his entry.

She is waiting there, standing in the middle of the room with the sun at her back.

There was silence within the room. The nausea that had been growing inside of him lurches painfully at the sight of her, disgust welling in his chest as he saw her watching him. She looked young. Dark hair, loose around her shoulders, framed a narrow, olive skinned face. Hard topaz eyes look over at him, watching, waiting. Silent.

It is almost too much for him to bear.

He can feel his heart rate increasing, his blood beginning to pound in his ears. She speaks, but he can't hear her. Her lips move, but the sound never reaches his ears, all sounds muffled away as he slowly begins to lose traction on the situation. He tries to concentrate, and he can finally hear her, but the sounds she makes never translate into words. It's a coarse, animal sound, reassembling a pig's grunt more than any language he has heard before. Her eyes narrow, and she keeps speaking, but the sound never changes, and he can feel himself starting to get angry.

She's just standing there, all in white, as if she didn't care that none of her men were here to defend her, as if she couldn't look out the window to see the bloodshed within the streets. He turns away from her, trying to regain his bearings as he looks across the room. A table, a chair, a bed, and a window. Hardly a room for a nation, though he assumes this isn't her main palace. She probably had came here to deal with the tension in the region, to reestablish her hold on the land. _Her lands._

She came here. She _wanted _to be here.

_So what happens will be fine…_

He takes a step towards her, and she does not move away. Her hands are clasped loosely before her, void of any weapon that could be used against him. Her words are getting louder now, more insistent than before, and he feels a pain in his fist. Looking down, he can see how tightly his hand is closed, his knuckles white, the bones pressed against the edges of the skin. He has to will his hand open, and when he does he can see the ring of bloody crescents lining the meat of his palm. There's blood lining the edges of his nails, and as he looks at them as she keeps speaking in her pig language, he realizes there's not enough.

There needs to be more.

He takes another step and this time she backs away, just half a step, but it's enough. The words keep coming out, louder and more jarringly than they were before, and he needs to make them stop. He is almost sick on his feet, reeling from the stench, _that stench_, which litters the corridors and rooms that make up the castle. They smell of it, but she _reeks_ of it, emanating it as only one of his kind could be capable of.

His eyes waver again, and this time they alight upon her chest, upon the one item of her attire that is not made of white. It's a cross, made of iron, hanging above her breasts, almost screaming at him as it sets against the unblemished white. He knows what it is, even though it's hard to think at the moment: its one of _his _signs, one of the symbols that represented _his _putrid legacy. _It's _of _him_, and _she's _of _him_, and they're dragging at his mind, hurting him so.

His thoughts begin to stray as he moves closer to her, close enough to be able to feel the hesitation that begins to enter her speech. Her eyes flicker towards his hand, the one still clasping his blade, flitting back towards his own with uncertainty. The words are still coming, anger apparent in her eyes, but he thinks he can see a trace of fear in them as well. All the better.

He lets the hand holding the bloodied blade open, letting the dagger fall to the floor without any objection. He's only a handful of footsteps away from her now, the girl [_who is _not _a girl_] standing what was left of her ground. With the fall of his blade, the words (which never seem to stop) seem surer, as if she had gained something from the loss. It didn't matter. His hands open and close, but only one of them has blood, and it is not enough.

It is terribly not enough.

When his hands reach out towards her, she pauses in mid breath, as if somehow she had expected something different from the situation. Her hands automatically rise up against his, but she is much smaller than him, and it is no task to shove her against the wall, hearing a satisfying crack as her head slams against the stone wall. She lets out a pain-filled gasp, and tries pushing him away again, a frantic pitch entering her words as she begins to panic. He gives her enough slack to let her push herself away from the wall before slamming her back, a shriek escaping from her lips.

He wonders how he could have missed it, the resemblance between the two. The dark hair, the olive skin, the same ageless look that made them look young even when they were old. This girl [_who is not a girl_] was not old yet, and if he got his way, she never would be.

Her entire body _reeked _of Rome.

He keeps one hand digging into her shoulder as the other makes it journey up towards her neck. Her hands continue their task of trying to keep her alive, her nails digging into the flesh of the back of his hands as his fingers circled around her throat. She's not screaming yet though, and somehow that is wrong. Perhaps she knows that there is no one who could hear her if she did, that no one would come to her aid. He wonders if he can make her scream for him anyways.

He can feel himself getting lost in his thoughts for a moment, and almost misses it when she changes languages. They sound so similar so that at first, he doesn't realize what she is saying. But then he knows. Her nails are still clawing at his skin as the words seep from her lips, the ancient tongue of her father speaking to him from beyond the grave. She's still screeching it as she makes a grab for his face, her nails questing for his eyes as her reach comes short. It's almost funny, watching her claw at him with her pathetic female arms, but it's not funny that she's using that language. _His language._

He has to make her stop.

He closes his fingers around her delicate neck, feeling a soothing pleasure as the words stop coming from her lips. There's a harsh, choking sound, both of her hands flying towards her neck as she tried to dislodge his hold. Her nails tear into the skin of his hand, slicing open the flesh at a frantic pace. Her legs are lashing out at him, her body supported against the wall by his hand that was currently beginning to crush her frail neck, but he barely feels the blows that came from her delicate feet.

His fingers tighten, and she makes another choking sound; the skin on the back of his hand has been shredded, flaps of it hanging off from the rest. He finds that he cannot feel any of it, and that he doesn't care. He watches her calmly, patiently, as she continues her struggle.

Since she had stopped speaking, he had began to feel more at ease, the feeling of suffocation receding, leaving a feeling of peace in its wake. He almost feels calm enough before she looks up at him, for a moment all attempts at escape ceasing. It is only for a moment, but when she looks eyes with him it feels like an eternity. It is almost like she is trying to place him, choosing this of all moments to try and recognize him from her memory.

He just watches as her eyes gaze over him, and for a brief, genuine moment, he can feel the panic leave her. It is almost like a shock through his body, his gut suddenly clenching. She looks at him, and he finds that he can't look away. Less than a moment passes, but it's years before she moves: there's a slight twitch at the edge of her lips, and a hint of cruel warmth of her eyes. It reminds him of a corpse left out in the sun, and he shudders once more.

She says one word, and one word only to him. It's not in his language, nor in hers, but he knows it. Just one word, a name, and a look of rancid pleasure crosses over her face as he feels that a knife has gone into his heart. Just one word. He breaks her gaze, looking down at his chest to see if he is bleeding, though he is not. It was all in his mind. She had done it all with just one word. The smile is still on her face. It looks just like her father's.

Now, he finally decides, there will be enough blood.

Without hesitation, he slams her head back against the wall. He hears the same cracking sound as he had the first two times, but this time there's a slight give to it, a slightly wetter sound. The hand crushing her shoulder gives way as he moves the other up over her face. His fingers tangle into her hair as she pitches forward, tightening as she let's out another shriek. Looking over to the wall, he can see a slight stain marring the otherwise pristine white plaster that covered the room. Her blood suit's the wall nicely, a lovely contrast to the white that seems to surround him, that wants to suffocate him.

She tries to regain her balance, half slumped over as he maintains his grip on her hair. Obliging her, he pulls her up, a sharp cry of pain escaping her battered throat as he dragged her up. He looks over across the room, and his eyes alight on the bed frame, and he decides it will do. Wheeling her around, still holding onto her hair, he forces her back against the raised frame at the foot of the bed, letting her spine collide with the wood. She cries out again, her arms blindly reaching out, desperately clawing towards his face.

He forces her half backwards against the frame, her upper body balanced painfully across the bedstead. One arm keeps reaching for his face, but the other has settled for his arm, the ragged nails being dragged down along its length. She's screaming, finally screaming, and it's wonderful to hear. He pulls her hair back farther, causing her body to arch unnaturally against the wooden frame. There's a series of short, muffled choking sounds as he forces her head back; apparently it is harder for her to scream at this angle. He decides to help her with that.

Without hesitation, he leans his head forward, letting his teeth clamp down around the base of her throat. Her struggles, which for a moment had began to diminish, intensify, both of her hands reaching for his face as she tried to get him off of her. He bites down, his sharp teeth tearing into her flesh, and she screams, her fingers madly trying to pull his head back by his hair as her blood begins to flow into his mouth. It's warm, putrid with it's metallic taste, yet it is wonderful. He decides it is his favorite part of her, and he needs more.

He clamps down harder, and her screams intensify, almost deafening him with her mouth so close to his ear. All at once the screaming stops, and he can feel her teeth bite down around his ear, tearing into his flesh as surely as his tore into hers. With a grunt of pained irritation, he lets, go, bringing up a hand force her off of him as he pushed her away.

However, she's reluctant to release her hold, and he can feel the cartilage in his ear beginning to tear as her teeth dig deeper into the delicate flesh. Having had enough, he clamps a fist within her hair, pulling both of them up only to slam the back of her head down upon the edge of the wooden frame that her back had been forced against just moments ago. Half stunned, she lets go, a trail of blood running from the edge of her mouth onto the white of her dress. Some of it even smears down upon her cross.

He lets her fall to the floor, taking a moment to catch his breath before continuing. Even on the floor, she isn't done yet, her body which should had lost consciousness minutes ago still gasping for breath. He reaches down at her, pulling her up by the neckline of her dress and the chain bearing the cross which was now splattered with blood. The fabric tears in his hand, but it doesn't matter: the chain holds up well enough, and he drags her over to the main side of the bed. She's still choking, the chain digging into her neck as he pushed her back against the bed.

Her eyes have a pained, dazed look on them, her mouth violently opening and closing as she fought to breathe. Her hands, however, are less impaired. Almost before he settles himself over her, they're reaching out towards him, digging into whatever flesh they can find. One manages to find purchase in the flesh above his left eye socket, and he's barely able to pull it off before it reaches down into his eyes. Suddenly, he feels a strange, sickeningly warmth upon his face, and looks down. Her lips are covered in blood now, a dull look of satisfaction alighting in her eyes that were swimming in pain. She had spat upon him.

_The little whore…_

He's still holding onto the hand that had almost reached his eyes, and after a moment of thought slammed it against the wall, bashing it in fingers first. She screams as he hears the bones break, repeating the gesture until he feels more of the bones collapse in upon themselves, letting them grind together. Her screams are reedier now, a sound he attributes to the fact that her throat is now partially collapsed. Her legs feebly try to kick out at him, but he sits back down upon them, his knees on either side of her legs. There's blood smeared across her lips, some of it dribbling down upon her dress as the neckline was dyed red. There's blood all over the ruined, broken mess that now is her right hand, the shattered fingers splayed at improper angles in a ghastly mess.

Still, it was not enough.

His fingers reach down across his sash, the open flaps of skin rubbing painfully across the rough fabric. Luckily, he's too far gone to care, and once he frees himself from the confines of his garb the pain almost becomes non-existent. Her mangled hand keeps trying to move, her ruined fingers spastically clenching and opening in a grotesque display. He reaches down with his good hand, dragging up the bottom hem of her dress. Only now does she seem to notice, and she begins to struggle under him.

There's a thin, whining sound begin emitted from her throat, almost like the sound of a wounded animal. However, when he looks up at her he sees her face not twisted in fear, like a cornered creature should have, but in hate. Pure, simple hate. Her bloodied lips are curled in a twisted sneer, malevolence flashing in the pained but harsh topaz. Her lips keep framing the same word, no strength left to vocalize it.

He can feel a scream, budding at the base of is throat, and fights to keep it in. He leans over, balancing himself with his bad hand as the other reaches up and back hands her across the face. He can feel her left cheekbone give under his hand, a wasted shriek escaping her throat before his hand clamps down over it. With the other, he pulls the skirt of her dress the rest of the way up, and forces himself into her.

She finds it within her to scream once more.

* * *

It's hard at first, but he is able to build up a rhythm, reveling in the blood that he can feel that eases his task. Her free hand finally latches upon his face, and he finds that he doesn't care when her nails run down his face, tearing open the skin as he tore open hers. He keeps one hand on her throat, clenching from time to time, listening as her screams became more and more ragged.

Her nails dig into the tender flesh under his eye, and he wonders what kind of sounds Kemet made when she died. Did she scream at Rome, tearing away at his flesh in rage as he sought to deprive her of life? What of these little gasping sounds that this _thing_ was making now, which may have been screams if her throat had not been crushed?

_Or had she made no sounds at all?_

He wondered about that, his mind wandering as his body continued its work. What if she had made no sounds, no sounds at all? What if there had been silence in the moments leading up to her death, a death on the cold blade in the malevolently smiling empire's hand? What a terrible thing it would be, to die in silence. To die deprived of the very right to protest ones death. He wondered.

_No matter._

Rome had owed him a debt of blood, and he sought to claim it now.

* * *

He continued long after he had finished, letting the bloodlust run out of his body as he continued to desecrate hers. By the time he is ready to stop, the sun had already begun to sink low along the horizon, casting sickly rays into the room. Readjusting himself, he finally pulls his hand from her throat, moving off of the bed with pained movements as he tries to settle himself on his feet.

It's hard moving around, his head feeling cloudy, already half forgetting the events that had just taken place as his mind began to reorient itself. He steadies himself against the bed frame, bringing his other hand up to gingerly touch at his face. For a moment, he can't tell what he's touching, not associating the hanging flaps of skin with what should have been his cheek. The skin he feels is shredded, some of the gashes cutting clean way into the inner lining of his mouth. He reaches his hand higher, feeling that his forehead had met the same treatment, blood running down into his eyes without him ever noticing or caring. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself as he looks upon the bed.

Part of him wishes he hadn't of looked.

The other part is vaguely satisfied.

He had had problems with seeing her as a woman before, his loathing making her seem less than human due to her abominable bloodline. Now, it's even harder to see her as such, her twisted form an obscene combination of white and blood. Her face is turned away from him, staring sightlessly at the wall; from this angle, it is impossible to tell if she is alive or dead. Her throat, from which his hand been wrapped around until only a minute ago, bears an unnatural, sunken look to it. The flesh surrounding it is dark, a grotesque band of bruised flesh. Almost all of her dress is drenched in blood, her chest and legs matted with it.

It is all a terrible sight to behold.

Yet, he is content.

Gathering himself, he collects what few items he had discarded about the room, quickly and quietly as he avoided the bed. Even now, he feels increasingly detached from the situation, as if he had just woken up to some nightmare that was already half over.

He hesitates once, and only once, as he makes to leave the room. He has still not looked upon her face, and can't quite remember what he would see if he was to. Nonetheless, he feels a quiet, unsettled urge to make sure that the task was complete. Kemet had died [_been butchered_]at the hands of Rome, all as this _thing _had watched. It would only be fair if this one was deprived of life as well.

He takes a step to move towards her, and finds he cannot continue. For all he knows, she's already dead, but he needs to make sure, yet he cannot. He doesn't know why, and can't explain why, and even in a thousand years he won't be able to understand why, but he _cannot_.

Without bearing her a second look, he turns and leaves. There's only one other presence in the house that he notices, but he doesn't care, too wrapped up in his own thoughts (or his repression of them) to bother. It was only a child anyways, from the feel of it, nothing that could be a threat to him. Besides, he has had his fill of blood.

He will never return to this land again.

The sun is just beginning to fall below the horizon as he is reunited with his men. By that time, the tiny, terrified form that had been hiding in the castle's storeroom finally finds the courage to come out, tenderly making her way through the desolate edifice.

It will be several more hours, with night already blanketing the devastated land, before she can even approach tower, before she can even go near her sister's room. Too frightened to stay but unwilling to leave, she wraps her arms around her knees and sits just outside of the closed room from where her sister lays in unnatural sleep.

And thus, the child weeps.

* * *

_6 months later…_

It was half a year before he returned to Damascus. It would have been foolish to believe the news would not have traveled there far ahead of them.

He had returned to the palace in the quiet of night, but the Caliphate had been waiting for him. No sooner had he entered his humble quarters, did he find a sword pointed in his face.

"I should have you killed for what you've done."

His dark face, normally so calm and benevolent, is twisted with hate, his hand trembling with rage. "To disobey my orders, to participate in such unneeded bloodshed, to desecrate that girl who was more than such, have you no humanity? A beast would be more capable of protecting his fellow man."

Baris' face is calmly neutral, maintaining his bearing as the Caliphate was losing his. "And what of it? Wasn't it _you _who sent me there in the first place?"

"Under no such orders, and we were to go _in_ _peace! _You've destroyed any chance of that, and for what?"

"'_We?_' What is this '_we'_? Besides," he shrugs his shoulders, indifferent to the sword tip that held level with his throat, "weren't you the one who trusted me? I may be worst than a beast, but you've always been a fool."

The blade is suddenly pressed against his neck, the curved blade pressing dangerously against his windpipe. "You would do well to remember whose kingdom you reside in." Rahman hissed. "Even if you reject my own sovereignty you are still a subject of the one true God, and you cannot betray him and live."

Baris smirks. "Who said I was afraid of dying? The only one scared of it, "his eyes lazily creep over the other, "is you."

He had forgotten how strong Rahman still was, because he finds himself pinned against the wall and breathless in an instant. The blade, which had only been pressing against his neck before, is beginning to dig into his throat, the skin already tearing as he feels his windpipe being blocked.

"To think that I ever trusted you. To think that I _wanted _to trust you. I should have known what you were from the start, and killed you like the rabid beast you are."

It's getting harder and harder for him to breathe, but he can't stop himself from speaking, possessed by a mad euphoria. "Tell me, _friend, _which makes you more mad: the fact that I raped her and left that bitch to die, or that your Caliph trusted me more than he trusts _you_?"

A silence hangs between them, and before Rahman pushes the blade harder against him he can see a momentary look of doubt flit across the other's face. It's all that he needs.

"It doesn't matter if he gave you the order, you should have known better than to carry it out. Besides, he is but one man. In another 30 years he will be dead, and there will be another to take his place. By then he will receive his judgment, just as you should now receive yours." He shifts his arm, preparing to swipe that will sever the other's throat.

"Do it and your generals will tear you to pieces, like the black dog you are. Kill me now, and see who they will follow."

There's hesitation in Rahman's gray eyes, and Baris knows that this is already over. As good and pure as the Caliphate was, his weakness would always be his doubt. He moves back once step, then two, pulling away from Baris as the other straightens himself up. There is no need for retaliation, for the damage is already done. Rahman moves away from him, disgust in his eyes as he turns to leave: at this moment, Baris knows that he will be the one to end the other's life, to free him from the hope that the other had from the world. It would as much an act of mercy as anything else.

His hand goes to his throat, assessing the damage but already not caring. The wounds from before had already since long healed, and these would be gone before the next day was done. The same could not be said for the other, who would have to live the rest of his noble life in fear of the very men who should have honored him.

No less than what he deserved.

"They don't want your peace, you know." The Caliphate stops at the doorway, his back still turned away from the other as Baris' voice reaches out to him. "Even if I hadn't of done it, they still wouldn't have wanted it. You could pray for their souls everyday, and none of them would have wanted anything to do with you, besides hang you in the streets. You will always be a dog to them, just as Kemet was to Rome. They'll use you and kill you the first chance they get. You know this."

Rahman's figure stands firm, yet Baris can see his shoulders slump in the slightest, as if an extra burden had been placed upon him. Yet, his words were firm. "Even so, I will keep trying. This world deserves some peace." He moves on, halfway out of the doorway before he stops again. "Baris?"

The other doesn't answer, though they the other doesn't need one. "Should she had lived-"

"She's dead-"

"Did you check, or could you not find the courage to do so after such an act of bravery?"

Baris is silent, and the other continues.

"Should Allah, the God of all who is the lover of all of mankind, the creator of all that is good, have found it upon himself to have allowed that poor, wretched child to live, and from such an aberrant and horrific union allowed life to be conceived, you will have nothing to do with it. You will leave both of them in peace, and you shall never lay claim to it. You think that I am a fool, but I am not wholly ignorant."

He looks back, his gray eyes coldly appraising the other. "You have already done enough to this world, and will no doubt die by your own wicked hand. Let this evil stop now. I will pray for your soul, but I already fear that it is not enough."

With that he turns away from the man who he had so badly wanted to trust, and walks away into the night. Baris only stands there, staring at the place where the other had stood until the suns rays creep across the earth.

Then, he moves on.

* * *

**Historical Notes: **The Caliphate was the first form of Islamic government to exist in the world. It lasted, along several dynasties, from approximately 632 AD to 1258 AD, when the Abbasid Caliph al-Musta'sim was executed after the Mongol conquest of Baghdad. The 7th day of the 7th month, year 92 of the Hijri Calendar is equivalent to April 30th, 711 AD, which is when General Tariq ibn-Ziyad lead a small force into the Iberian peninsula. Under the orders of Caliph Walid I, they were able to quickly overwhelm and defeat the area, eventually bringing most of modern day Spain and Portugal under Arab control. The city that had España's castle is Jimena de la Frontera, a small town near the coastline of southern Spain. The castle was originally constructed during Roman times, and would be modified under Muslim influence.

The words that Baris recounts from the Caliphate (except for the last line) are the translated [verbatim] words of the second Caliph, Abu Bakr, as he outline the ten rules for the Muslim army. The title of the chapter is the name for the lands in the Iberian Peninsula that were governed by the Arabs and Moors. By the 11th century AD, Christian kingdoms in the far north would have already began reclaiming the region. The peninsula would not be united fully under Spanish rule until 1492 AD.

**Author's Notes: **This was essentially Ottoman's revenge for the murder of Kemet. Rome had since already died, but the 'score' had never been settled. Rome's eldest child had been with him when he came to deprive Kemet of her life, not participating but merely his sympathetic audience. It's Kemet's given name that she mocks Baris with.

Obviously, she does not die from the incident, though perhaps it would have been better if she did. The child that is conceived from this is Spain, whom she will bear an insatiable hatred for (as well as his father). He will never be told of who his father is, since neither she nor her [shamed] siblings will ever speak of it. The child that weeps for her is her younger sister, Portugal. Also, this attack would help lay the groundwork for the religious crusades of the children of the Roman Empire, especially the Spanish Empire's purging of religious minorities once the peninsula is reclaimed by the Catholic faithgul.

**Ottoman:** Baris Nefret Düşmanlık.**  
The Caliphate:** Abd Al Rahman, Arabic for 'servant of the merciful [God]'.**  
España: **Reina Torquemada de Galicia.


	10. Idus Martiae

**Everlasting Night**

**Title: **Prelude to Conflict  
**Chapter 10: **Idus Martiae  
**Characters: **Ancient Rome and Ancient Greece  
**Rating: **PG-13.  
**Summary: **Loss is never easy for anyone. 44 BC

_Rome, March 15th__, 44 BC_

Their footsteps echoed hollowly in the empty hallways. "Good day to be alive, isn't it?"

It's a cruel joke and they both know it, but Alexandros isn't about to say anything. Rome waits for the other to say something, and when there's nothing he grins, his smile widening with a hint of feral glee. The other man can't see it, always half a step behind the empire, but he can feel it. He can feel it as easily as he knows Rome can sense the redness creeping up his neck, the humiliation hiding behind his eyes.

Rome continues. "It's on days like this you can really feel like a man, really feel like there's not a damn thing in the world that can stop you, don't you think Alexi?" It's not his name, but Rome likes to use this one, the extra syllables apparently too much to waste on such a lowly being. Still, it's better to go along.

"You would know best, Aurelius. This is your land."

"I'm not just talking about _my land_, Alexi." Rome's footsteps quicken, forcing the other man to hasten his pace as they reach the edge of the passageway. It is still early in the day, and the bright light from the sun is still a warm, gentle gleam falling down around them, a small comfort to Greece. "I'm talking about everything. _Everywhere._ It's so goddamn good, knowing how much of the world is yours."

Silence once again follows this comment, and once again Rome's grin widens. Poor little Alexi was no fun to be around unless someone was teasing him, and for all the philosophers his land had produced, he never could manage his bearing. He was so much fun to play with.

"Come on Alexi, talk with me." They walk into the public streets, Rome's pace still a little too fast as Greece tries to keep in step. He had to be very careful as he does so, for even though physically Rome is far stronger than himself, he couldn't afford to be seen as unseemly. If he lags too far behind, Rome will be angry at him, annoyed at the fact that the other would seek to linger away from his presence. If he was careless and allowed his pace to outstretch Rome's, he could expect a public repudiation, a smile upon the other's lips as he crushed his old friend's face against the stones that lined the streets.

May the Gods save him if he was ever foolish enough to walk beside Rome.

"What would you wish you talk about?"

Rome laughs, a dry, crackled sound, and while it is not entirely unfriendly Greece finds himself wishing to draw away from the other man. "Well, I can talk about anything I please, can't I?" He glances back towards the other. "What I was asking [_telling_] you was, that I wanted you to talk with me. So talk."

Greece swallows before nodding, quietly wishing that he was anywhere but there. "Your Caesar is much loved. It is good to have such a man lead your people." His eyes dart towards Rome before instantly hurrying away. He quickly adds, "You have trained him so well."

Rome nods, letting a deceptively sheepish grin spread across his face. "That is quite true. To think, to have known, practically _raised _the boy for more than half a century, and look how he turns out! He was a boy, not even a man, when I had him spared. Old Sulla wanted him dead, but I knew there was something special in him. Now, he has enough power to crush the world three times over." He looks over at Greece again, and Alexandros can see the lightness in his words doesn't quite match the hard glint in his eyes. "It is what I would want for all of my people. All of my children."

Greece nods again, not so much out of agreement as it allows him to break eye contact with Rome. While it's still early in the day, it's not _too _early, so it feels a little strange to have the streets so empty. In the time that they had entered the public street, they had passed by less than a dozen people. He supposed it was both a blessing and a curse that there were so few people abound: a curse, since there was no one else to distract Rome or to hold his attention as the other teased him so.

It was a blessing, in case Rome decided he needed to play with his favorite toy. At least there would be less people to see it.

"_You're not talking_." This comes out in a childish, sing-song voice, but Rome can issue orders in any kind of voice he wants.

Greece continues. "The conquest into Britannia, when will you start again?"

Rome smirks, but the question pleases him. "It will be much easier to assure victory this time around once that faggot son of mine can learn to keep his place." He raise one hand to rub the bridge of his nose, the other never straying far from the hilt of his sword. "It's like the boy _enjoys _trying to embarrass me. I never have these kinds of problems with his sister, even at the worst of times. The brat keeps forgetting that he is but a child and has no place to try and stand up on his own."

"I see. Both of your daughters have always been a credit to you. Perhaps Francis can learn from the elder."

Rome shrugs his broad shoulders. "The boy always believed that he knew better than me. Even the most perfect older sister could do little to sway such an obstinate little fool. Reina cannot help it that she is perfect, and she cannot help that the boy is not. I'll just have to beat him down harder this time." He smiles over at Greece. "You know how that works, don't you Alexi?"

Greece bows his head. "Of course, my lord. Obedience is a necessary part of understanding one's place."

Rome laughs, and claps his hands together. "Correct as always, my good friend. Now, why don't you try and tell that to me without looking at the ground?"

The other stiffens, and Rome laughs. "You have no sense of humor, do you Alexi? Can't tell when I'm serious, can't tell when I'm joking, you're not a very good friend to me at all. What use are you to me?"

Greece's head bows down even deeper. "I apologize. Forgive my fallibility."

Rome waves his hand, as if brushing aside the other's words and concerns. "As always, as always. What kind of monster do you think I am?"

Greece says nothing, and they continue their way towards the Forum. It is less than a week away from the equinox, but the weather is still very warm. By mid afternoon the heat would decided whether to remain gentle or become stifling, and by then the Senate would already have been in session for hours.

One of the few things Rome allowed him to do in public was attend these meeting beside him. Yes, each instance had a fair share of teasing and humiliation, Rome eager to parade about the conquered nation with almost a child-like glee. Still, he was still treated with some semblance of respect by the Senators and patricians of the city. The nation of Greece still held some deference in such circles, and Rome kept him close to him in order to improve his own standing before such men.

At least Rome had allowed him to live.

'_For now.'_

"Some of the Germanics tribes keep giving me trouble though, especially in the North. The fairy keeps letting them into his lands and pretends he doesn't know about them whenever I question him. I aught to just do away with the boy, and let Reina take his lands in the north, but that would be admitting failure, wouldn't it? No child of mine is going to shame me in front of my own people."

"And of the Germanics? What will you do with them?"

They turn onto the main avenue, only a few leagues away from their destination. "It would be a bother, having to kill all of them. Besides, the Empire needs new blood, and I have been meaning to have another child. Bearing a child with one of their princesses or queens would go a long way in establishing ties and allegiances. Maybe this time I'll have a son who is worth keeping."

Greece nods again, secretly wishing that this will not be the case. He didn't care particularly for any of Rome's board, but at least the boy seemed to have some promise. Looking at his eldest daughter, he always felt a general unease, as if he was just looking at a younger version of Rome. Except much colder.

_And less sane._

"And Germania?"

"As I said, it would be good to have new blood in the family. The boy is still young, so maybe I'll be able to get to him before he too becomes a waste. I'll raise him properly, so even if he was born a barbarian he won't have to live like one."

"Of course. Once that is complete, you will stand unopposed as you conquer the rest of Britannia. As I recall, my lord," he begins, moving slightly closer to Rome as a merchant pulls a chart next to them. The man bows his head towards Rome, and the Empire smiles back with a wave. It's time like these that Greece remembers how much these people loved their Empire, and how well he treated them. It was what had drawn Greece towards Rome in the first place, that strange, inviting feeling that Rome naturally seemed to exude.

But that was then.

"As I recall, the only problem native to that land is but a boy, and he could hardly be a threat to you."

"And the barbarians haven't been a problem either, eh?" Rome's eyes flit over to Greece, mildly rebuking the other. Greece's head is bowed, and scoffing, Rome continues. "I don't care if there's one or a hundred of them, I'll cut them down just as my right. Besides, that boy and his savage clansmen are but few. I will drive the Celts into the sea." There are more people in this part of the city, the marketplace just starting to pick up speed. Still, to Greece it feels like something is wrong, something is missing. Unperturbed, Rome continues on.

"My empire, my people, deserve to grow, and by all rights that land is already mine." He raises a hand before his face, flexing the fingers before crushing them into a fist. "The world is theirs, and it is my duty to give it to them. Any hardships along the way, for ourselves and for our enemies, are unfortunate but necessary."

Greece bows his head, and they continue along their way. The Forum is in sight now, the grand structure looming ahead of them. "Alexi?" There is a strange lilt at the end, the question causing Greece to look up. "What is it, Rome?"

"Why haven't you asked about Egypt yet?"

Greece's mind hadn't yet processed the words before his body freezes, his breath hitching violently in his chest. Rome only continues a few steps before stopping, a lazy smile hanging malevolently from his lips. "Well, why haven't you?"

Greece keeps his head down, his dark hair falling over his eyes. "Forgive me, my lord, but I do not understand the nature of your question."

"Oh, but I think you do." Rome takes an arrogant step towards him, daring the other to step back. "Don't you want to know how your friend is, if that aging whore is still alive? Don't you care, Alexi, don't you? Such a terrible, terrible friend!"

Alexandros keeps his eyes down, not trusting himself to look at Rome without betraying the hate in his eyes. "My lord, if there was news from the south, I'm sure you would have saw fit to inform me if it bore importance. I would not question your judgment on such issues."

"Aw, what a nice thing to say, except that you have no right to any and all of the information within my empire." He reaches a hand out to Greece, brushing his hair out of his eyes before forcing his chin up. "Remember, Alexi, whether I let you walk in the streets or let you rot in a cage makes no difference, since both are within my rights. I can't imagine what it must feel like, to be so utterly useless and helpless." He smiles, rubbing his thumb over the other's lips. "You bear it so well."

"Caesar doesn't want her to die."

The grin fades into a smirk, annoyance hinting at the edge of Rome's eyes. His hand drops, pushing Greece away. "Indeed, he does not. For all of my dear Caesar's perfections, it seems that he couldn't help himself but to sink into such loathsome flesh. Even fathering a son with the whore's queen." He shakes his head. "Disgraceful."

"You said yourself that new blood would be good for the family."

The words are hardly out of his mouth before Rome's knuckles meet with the bottom of his jaw. Rome only had to expend minimal effort to knock Greece off of his feet, the weakened nation no match for the other. "It matters when it's _that _kind," he hisses, rage darkening his eyes. "It matters when it's barely even _human_."

Greece brings his hand to his face, feeling the blood from his split lip and the bruise that will be growing on the side of his mouth. Still, this was barely anything [_'Compared to what will happen tonight…'_] and at least Rome had decided not to wear any rings today. Before he can further asses the damage, he feels himself being pulled to his feet, Rome's hand around his forearm in a painfully tight grip.

"You know better than to talk like that, _Alexi._ As clever as you think you are, you still belong to me." Rome pulls him up almost flush against him. "Both of you do." Completely upright, Greece finds that he's standing far too close to Rome, the Empire not allowing him any ground. "Besides, Caesar has a wife. A good, _Roman _wife. His children here are the only ones who matter to me. None other deserve to exist."

"But yes." Rome pulls him along, half dragging the fallen nation as they approached the steps of the Forum, Greece barely able to keep his balance as he as pulled upward. "Caesar wants her to live. He has already done so much for me, the least I can do is let him play with the heathen savages for a little while longer. It surprises me though," he continues, looking back at Greece as he finally lets him go, the other man almost falling with the loss of support. "Why do you care so much about Egypt? I didn't know the two of you were such good friends."

They aren't, and they both know it, but friendship isn't the reason why Egypt's safety mattered to Greece.

"Or is it," Rome drawls, a clever gleam shining cruelly in his eyes, "just because the _other _wants nothing to do with you anymore? It's so sad, I didn't realize that your tastes were so," he makes an empty gesture, miming his false bewilderment, "_perverse._"

'_Says the man who sleeps with his dau-'_

"Oh well, I suppose it doesn't matter." Rome continues back up the steps, waving the issue aside, his voice becoming childish again. "Maybe one of the playwrights will write a story about it, I'm sure the whole deal is properly entertaining." Greece continues along after him, knowing that he will be beaten tonight but that the assembly still bore prominence. They were still nations, after all.

"Don't worry your pretty little head over anything, Alexi. As long is Caesar is alive, nothing will happen to your _precious _savages. I guarantee that she will be left alone."

_For now._

The words echo quietly in his head, so quietly that he doesn't notice how unnatural the silence is in the square below them. The day is so lovely, yet the whole city seems to be holding its breath, just watching. Waiting.

_Waiting._

It's Rome that sees them first.

It takes Greece a fraction of a second to realize that when Rome calls out, the normal, jubilant tone that he always took with his people is gone. There isn't anger in his voice so much as there is confusion, and with a man like Rome confusion was so much deadlier than his hate. There are other voices, shouting out, but they're far away, too far away for Rome to be able to reach them in time. Greece is still in the process of looking up as his gaze turns to the eastern portico, a mass of men in the center as Rome began to run towards them.

Still, he is too far away.

Greece isn't too far away to hear a yell, not a scream but a declaration, the words '_Adelphe, boethei!_' reaching him clearly since they are in his language, which for a moment confuses him as to where he is. His mind is still trying to understand what is wrong before he sees something glittering in the sunlight, dozens of matching flashes as he sees something silver in the hands of the men. Rome is still running towards them, and he finds himself following after him, not so much out of solidarity but because he feels himself being dragged along with him.

Rome is close but still too far away when the daggers come down, the voice of the man who can only be Rome's king crying out from the crowd as the men fall upon him.

* * *

**Historical Notes: **March 15th, 44 BC, is the day marking the assassination of the Roman Consul/Dictator, Gaius Julius Caesar, the most famous Roman in the western world. At this point of his life, Caesar was at the peak of his power, controlling Greece (fell to Rome in 146 BC), Iberia, Gaul, and holding power over Egypt. He had backed Pharaoh Cleopatra VII in the Alexandrian Civil War she fought against her brother (and co-regent, Pharaoh Ptolemy XIII) in 47 BC. They became lovers, and he fathered her son Caesarion.

Their affair was scandalous not because of adultery, but because he raised her up towards his level in Rome. He even had a statue of her, depicted as the Goddess Isis, erected in Rome. Also, he had essentially lead the way for the dissolution of the Roman Republic, installing himself as dictator for life. His policies were populist in nature, and he was much beloved by the lower and middle classes, and despised by many of his more prominent and affluent compatriots.

Gaius Cassius Longinus and Marcus Junius Brutus led a group of Senators (by some accounts, almost 60) in his assassination. After trapping and murdering the Dictator, the conspirators were believed to have shouted "People of Rome, we are once again free!" This was met with silence, as the citizens had locked themselves into their homes when rumors of the murder began to spread. Having no support, the conspirators broke up and fled, many being later hunted down and killed. The ensuing civil wars effectually ended the Roman Republic.

Caesar's successor and grandnephew, the young Gaius Octavian, inherited the role of Caesar, proving to be prominent force in his own right. He was the first to be given the title as Emperor, and would be known as Caesar Augustus (think 'Bible'). He would later lead a force against Mark Anthony (who had married Caesar's former lover Cleopatra and had built a force in Egypt to conquer Rome). They were eventually defeated and killed, and the Egyptian Empire was vanquished.

**Author's Note: **Rome certainly likes to play with his toys. The child Rome wishes to have will be his 2nd son, Justinian, and the boy in the far north (Britannia) is a young Scotland. Caesar was the first to lead a campaign into the English Isles, but their successes weren't that prominent. The person that Rome mentions, but never names, is Persia, Kemet's sister.

And I do believe dear Rome will keep his promise.

**Rome**: 'Marcus' Aurelius Marcellus, Roman for "Golden/Glided Mars".  
**Ancient Greece: **Alexandros Herakleitos, Greek for 'the defender of man' and 'glory to Hera'.

'_Adelphe, boethei!', _was Greek for 'Help me, brothers!' Servilius Casca, a conspirator, uttered this when Caesar reached out to him as the others began their assault.


	11. Consuelo

**Everlasting Night**

**Title: **Prelude to Conflict  
**Chapter 11: **Consuelo  
**Characters: **España, Byzantine, and Portugal  
**Rating: **PG-13. Some slight undertones.  
**Summary: **The loving is sweet, big sister knows all; why cross the street, when you can just cross the hall? 1056 AD

_Barcelona, 1056 AD_

"Bienvenidos, hermanito."

He closes the door behind him, trying to gently push it back into its frame but his clumsy movements still betray him. It makes a harsh, clanking sound as it closes, the noise awkward in the quiet room. He takes a moment before turning around, composing his bearing before turning to face the other.

Her back is turned towards him, her chair facing towards the outer terrace that lies just outside of her chambers. It is still early in the afternoon, and the early fall's sun rays stream in, forming a gentle halo around her. He takes a few steps towards her before pausing in mid stride, turning to unfasten his sheath from around his waist as he laid his sword down upon a table near the door. She has never asked him to do so, but he has never approached his sister with a weapon, and he never will. He begins his approach again, his heavy, cumbersome steps bringing him closer and closer to his eldest sister.

Finally, he is behind her, and he reaches out towards her, his large hand hesitantly resting upon her delicate shoulder. There's silence between them, and then one of her hands daintily covers his, her delicate fingers petite against his own. Her fingers move like silk over his scarred knuckles, and some of the tension that he had been holding in his chest releases. He brings his head down, bending over as he lifts her hand, gently brushing his lips against the soft flesh that is the back of her hand.

"I've missed you, sister,"

He's still holding her hand as he walks around her, his grip loose as not to hurt her as he kneels down before her. It's an old habit of his, kneeling besides her in order not to tower over her. He had been taller than her since he was young, his body growing faster than those of his much older siblings. Still, he preferred anything that kept him closer to her, closer to the warmth that she always seemed to radiate. He breathed in the scent of her perfume, the delicate aroma cradling him like the soft hands of a lover.

She delicately intertwines their fingers, rubbing her thumb gently against the inside of his palm, a soft smile playing upon her lips. "How has little brother been?"

He takes a moment before he answers, hesitating less than a second; still, it is more than enough. "I'm fine, sister, I'm always fine, and so happy to see you." He follows this with a bow of his head, protecting himself from having to lie to her eyes.

Of course, things _are not _fine, things have not been fine for a long time, and the whole reason him being here is because things are very much _not _fine. Still, he cannot bring himself to say such things out loud when he is so close to the one he treasures the most.

They only have so much time together.

She closes her eyes as she smiles, bringing her other hand up to cover his own, her fingers drawing nonsensical patterns upon the back of his hand. "Things are fine with my little brother? That I am glad to hear. I was worried that our brother's carelessness had hurt you so."

Justinian stiffens at that, but her fingers continue their ministrations, keeping the height of his stress at bay. She continues with quiet certainty. "Francis has always been such a careless boy, and with a little power he is no different than from when he was a child. To think, that he would use the church in such a selfish way. I so wish you had come to see me sooner, for sister cannot bear the thought that her beloved brother could be in such pain."

His head bows down deeper, not trusting himself to look upon her without anguish showing upon his face. She sighs quietly, pulling her brother closer as his head rests against her knees. "He wanted to, he wanted to start a fight." The soft fabric of her dress is comforting against his cheek, the damask a deep topaz that matched her beautiful eyes. "He just couldn't leave well enough alone, and he had to start a fight." Reina says nothing, only freeing a hand in order to brush her fingers over his hair, encouraging him on.

"We could have kept the Church together, we _should _have kept the Church together. It was of father, he created it, and Francis had no right to try and destroy it." The words begin to come out quicker, his breathing heavier, his fingers clutching at the skirt of her dress. "I tried to reason with him, tried to be the rational one in the matter, and for what? For him to send his men into MY church during the service, and to leave THAT abomination?" His breath hitches, anger entering his voice as he attempts to remain calm.

"Perhaps brother dares too much."

It's not a question, and the statement tugs at the edge of his mind as her delicate fingers urge him forward. Grateful, he pulls himself closer, his head now resting against her thighs. "Using the girl against you, her and her Pope, what a cruel thing for our brother to do to you. We must mean so little to him, for him to treat us so callously. It grieves me to think about what little love remains in our family."

He looks up, his eyes protesting with earnest emotion. "I still love you, sister. I love you more than anyone."

"I know, hermanito." Her eyes are gently smiling at him, and he feels his self assurance returning to him. "Little brother has always loved me so much, hasn't he?" He nods his head, rubbing his cheek against her covered legs. "What greater joy can sister have, knowing that she is loved by one as noble and handsome as thee?" His face flushes, and she brings her hand down from his hair and gently cups his cheek. "Do not be ashamed about loving me, little brother. You know I have always loved you the most."

"I'm not ashamed." And his isn't. He wasn't when they were younger, when he had always sought refuge behind her skirts when father and older brother teased him so. He also wasn't when they were older, when father had begun his younger son's military training in earnest, dismayed to see him run to his older sister in tears whenever he had suffered a blow.

Father had said that he should not depend upon a woman so much, but sister's hands were always kind. Besides, father himself did not mind draping his arms across his eldest daughter's shoulders, pulling her close against him as his laughter was laced with wine. He had loved father, he had loved father so much, and if it was okay for father to find comfort in her, it was ok for him too.

"Yes, brother is so cruel to us. He likes to forget that we are family, all while he plays with that little child in the north." Justinian says nothing, Reina's fingers moving back towards his hair as she soothed his mind. "To think, that he has a little brother," her hand circling down towards his neck, "yet, he treats a stranger better than his own blood. Of course, the child can't help what our brother does." Her hand rests gently along the back of his neck, rubbing circles around the points of his spine.

"However, our brother can help it. Still, he continues. Are we not good enough for him?"

Justinian takes in a deep breath before shaking his head. He couldn't remember a time when Francis seemed to love them. He was born when the others were already quite a ways from being young, yet he was not so young as to miss the hateful looks older brother had always directed at father. He had hated father, and for what? Father had always been glorious, father had always been splendid, father had been everything Justinian had wanted to be. To hate father was to hate glory, to hate him was to hate greatness, to hate life itself. He never understood how someone could hate father, especially when sister had loved him so.

Francis had hated older sister too, and that, above all else, was unforgivable. Never once, in all of his years of life, had he seen Francis even embrace their sister. He would embrace little sister, who was small even when he was young, and was still small as he grew older, and sometimes brother would lay his hand upon Justinian's head and smile.

Never, though, would his arms reach out towards their oldest sister, and when he smiled at her never did it quite reach his eyes. Francis hated older sister, and somehow that was worse than hating father. Francis could be jealous of father, because Francis was petty and small, but for what reason could he hate sister? Older sister was everything good in the world, everything beautiful and virtuous, and Justinian would do anything to protect her.

'_Unlike brother…'_

"I'm sorry, little brother, that Francis takes out his frustrations on you. He wants so much in this world, so _terribly _much, and he can't stand to let anyone else have their share. Not even wonderful little brothers such as yourself." He feels her shift over him, painfully leaning over as she pressed a kiss to his hair. He buried his face deeper into her lap, willing away the tears in his eyes. Sister always loved him so much, and here she was hurting herself, her poor, tormented body, in order to show him how much he was loved. His hands fisted themselves into the cloth of her skirt, his chest heaving in repressed sobs.

He hadn't been able to protect her.

He hadn't of been able to keep sister safe, too busy fighting the savage Muslims in the south of his kingdom to notice how far they had spread along the northern coast of the dark continent. Sister had been far away and alone, with only little sister alongside of her as the beasts marched westward. She had been alone when they had crossed the strait separating her from their lands, alone when…when…

_And Francis had done __**nothing**__._

_He knew, he had known, and he had done nothing to stop them from coming for her. He let them come, he __**wanted **__them to come, he hated sister so much that he would do anything to make her hurt. He knew, how could he not of have known? Not have know when his lands were so close to her own, when Justinian was so far? Brother was so cruel, brother was so hateful, he would do anything to make sister go away. _

_For that, for everything, brother must die._

"Little brother?" Reina's words are delicate and sweet, and pull him from his violent thoughts. His eyes gaze up at her, loving in their obedience. "Why does little brother keeps his thoughts from me? When little brother is beside me, he should not keep his thoughts to himself. Nothing should be allowed to trouble little brother's thoughts."

He sighs, gingerly wrapping his strong arms around her slender waist. Most of his large body now rests against her, one of her hands gracefully moving up and down his back as the other runs through his hair. She had done this to him since he was a child, and he had always cherished the gentleness of her hands, the comfort in her touch. The words were but a whisper, spoken into her dress. "I hate him."

"Does little brother, now?" He can hear the smile in her voice, comforting him better than even the warmest of the sun's rays. "It grieves me that little brother would have to feel this way, to have so much unhappiness inside of him. A better sister would make sure that their little brother would never suffer, would never have reason to be unhappy. How I must disappoint you so."

His arms wrap tighter around her, carefully not to, hurt her (because sister is so delicate), pulling himself closer to her as the top of his head gently rests against her abdomen. "It's not true. You've always been wonderful to me, always. Sister has always loved me more than anyone."

'_And I have always loved sister the most.'_

_Always…_

Her breathing becomes heavier as her fingers pull him closer to her, gently pushing him against herself as his face pressed deeper into the soft damask covering her legs. He's so far gone that he never feels it when her aura fills with murderous rage, harshly converging on a distant wing of the palace. Justinian doesn't notice, and if he did he wouldn't care, too drunk off of his sister's scent to care about anything other than staying close to her. One hand gently turns his face, resting his cheek against her lap as her fingers brush against his lips. "Of course sister loves you. No matter what our brother does to us, sister will always love you."

He sighs in contentment, a child's smile upon his lips as her fingers continue to caress his face. His lips part gently as her thumb rubs along his bottom lip, a soft sound escaping between them as the nail traces lightly against the upper. Had Justinian been looking at her face, he would have seen nothing but kindness in the loving gaze looking down on him, nothing but the same kindness she had looked down upon him with for the past millennium. Here were some things he would never know, yet he would not have cared, for it was not in him to know.

It was not in him to know, and only for him to love her.

"The Church shall survive, little brother. God does not bow down to man, and He will not bow down to nations. The Holy See and her pope are nothing but vessels of our Lord, as are we. Do not carry their or our brother's words with the same importance as God's." Her hands rest on either side of his neck, pushing his chin up with her thumbs, her nails gentle against the tender flesh. "Even if they push your hand away, your faith must never waver. Can you do that for me, little brother? Can you keep the Church in the East strong for your sister?"

"I would do anything for you, Reina. I would die for you."

She makes a quiet, content noise as her fingers frame his face. Slowly, she brings her head down, at a delicate arc in order to reduce pain, resting her forehead against her brother's. They remain as such for a few minutes, Justinian's heart beating wildly against his chest. Sometimes it confuses him when they do this, this closeness that was somehow different from when they were children. Still, it was wonderful to be besides her, and as long as she wanted him to he would stay near her.

_Anything for her._

Her fingers move down from his face to his shoulders, guiding his face back down against her lap. "I'll keep the Church strong for you, sister. I'll keep it strong, and one day we'll be able to unite it again with the West, and we will always be together." He pulls one of his arms back, reaching up towards her in order hold onto her hand. "Nothing can stop me from being with you."

"And our brother?"

His hand tightens around hers, not hard enough to hurt her but enough to demonstrate his point. "If brother tries to get in between us, there will be nothing he can do. I will kill him for you, I would kill him if only you would ask me to."

She smiles, and from his angle he can't quite see what is glittering in her eyes. "Little brother has always been so kind to me, I would never wish for his hands to be stained with such profane blood. I would never ask for you to kill one of our siblings, never out of selfish hate. However," Her free hand, which had been delicately running through his hair moves downward, gently cradling the side of his throat. "Little brother would always defend me, and protect sister from those who would hurt her, is that not so?"

He nods, his right arm clutching tighter around her waist. She turns her head to the side as her smile widens. "Sometimes, I think that brother wishes to do away with us, to make it so that he is the only remnant of our father's kingdom. Sometimes, I wonder if he looks after the boy out of kindness, or merely breeding a new ally who only understands his distorted version of the truth."

"Sometimes I wonder about brother very much."

Justinian is quiet, her words the very reflection of the doubts he himself had been harboring in his heart. "He would seek anyone to be his allies, from the most godless savages to the most treacherous priests. I do not trust him, and little brother should not trust him either. If you smile to his face, be sure to keep your hand by your sword, because brother will betray us as he had done to father countless times before. Does little brother understand?"

He nods his head, and the other is content. "Good, so very good little brother. Still," she brushes her hand against his cheek, "I would not have you act foolishly. What he has done to you now should be an example at how devious our brother will be. He wants to provoke you, he wants to humiliate you, all to make you start a war so he can fashion himself into the misused hero. Will you let him do that?"

He nuzzles face against her hand, and she lets him. "No, sister. Never. I will not let him win."

They remain there for a while, the day passing slowly around the palace grounds as time stood still for them. It was so rare that he was able to be besides sister, centuries since they had been able to live together. Kneeling there, feeling her hand against his cheek, it was like being a child again, safe in her arms, never knowing pain nor want. It feels like hours before he straightens his back, reluctantly having to take his leave from her. It is a terrible thing to leave, but it must be done. Francis will not wait for him.

He kisses her hand as he rises, pressing gentle kisses against her knuckles and the back of her palm. In turn, she kisses the top of his head, her other hand gently moving from the back of his neck to splay her fingers against his chest. As he is almost fully upright, she pulls him down towards her, bringing his face close to her own as she moved towards him.

She places a kiss against his cheek, the kiss soft but firm in its resolve, her lips silken against his skin as they gently move towards the corner of his mouth. It is strange, with half of her lips pressing against his own, a heady feeling softly pulling at his mind. The kiss lasts for a long moment, both an eternity and evanescent.

He would do anything to make this moment last forever.

By the time he leaves, it is already late in the afternoon, the sun hanging low around the horizon as the city began to wind down in anticipation for night. She feels him as he leaves this wing of the palace, his sweet, tedious strength emboldened by her encouraging love. She waits until he is a ways from the grounds, patiently biding her time before she can act. When he is finally gone, there is no need for hesitation.

She raises up from her chair, with a fluid grace much unlike her brother's. Her steps are swift as she crosses the room, her feet carrying her towards a distant wing in the palace without any hint of pain or rigidity that Justinian had thought in her hours ago. She arrives at her destination without any time wasted, her target quietly waiting for her.

There is no need to try and force the door. Madalena knows better than to try and lock it.

"Good evening, sister."

Only a few short steps separate the elder from the other, only a few seconds before Reina's fingers are twisting within her younger sister's tresses, dragging the younger girl up from her place upon her bed. The girl doesn't bother to fight back, knowing that it will only make things worse.

And not for herself.

"Did you think that was cute, little sister? Did you think I wouldn't notice you sneaking behind my back when I was with our brother?"

With each sentence Reina pulls her sister up a little higher, nearly forcing the girl to stand on her toes as she tried not to let her hair be pulled out from the root. Her voice never changes, though; it is the same sweet, lovely timbre that had comforted their brother so. "Or was it, did you want brother to see you? Was that it?"

"I had no intention of interrupting you or brother, sister. I was nowhere near your rooms."

Reina lets out a quiet, humorless laugh, pretty in its emptiness. "No, you weren't there, were you little sister?" Turning, she stalks to a corner of the room, dragging the younger along with her as she came across a low table near a wall. There is a small, wooden platter of food sitting upon it, the uneaten portions small but numerous, as it they had been taken in bits from many dishes. It almost seems to look guilty under her eye, as if it was stolen jewels laid upon it instead of fragmented bits of bread and meat.

"Why were you bringing it food, little Madalena? Do you think it will starve, or that I would let it die?" Madalena says nothing, already knowing what Reina will say as she has done this countless times before.

"Well then." Still holding onto her sister's hair, she lifts the tray with one hand. Pulling Madalena along, she walks over to the small window in the room, the only source of light in the tiny chamber, and without a second thought dumps the tray out the third story window. There are several long seconds before it hit's the ground, clattering against the stone courtyard as the platter breaks into several pieces. Reina is unperturbed.

"You will be cleaning that later, of course." Reina's voice is dull, already bored with the situation. "You are responsible for it." Turning away from the window, she releases her grip on the younger's hair, her arm moving around her sister's shoulders with a quiet sort of possessiveness.

"Whether it lives or dies is solely for me to decide, little sister. You have no right to undermine me." She looks down at the younger, regarding her with quiet, dispassionate eyes. Watching her sister's small face, a fragmented mask of apprehension, a smile curls at the edges of her lips. "Why does little sister test me so?"

The girl swallows before answering, determined not to cast down her eyes in front of the elder. Her words come out barely above a whisper, though they are firm. "He's your son, Reina. He can't help but be what he is."

The smile grows, and Reina languidly pulls her closer. Madalena manages not to flinch as the space between them shrinks. "Little sister is so kind, isn't she?" Her hand pulls the other even nearer, bringing them almost flush against each other. "Always so gentle, always so kind." She pulls the younger's head back gently, her touch inconsistent with her actions from before. "All the kindness in the world, in such a small body."

"Am I going to have to break your other arm to get you to listen to me, little one?"

Between them is only silence, a thousand truths about their positions not needing to be said. "Nothing?" She brings her face closer to the younger, her lips brushing against her sister's ear. "Then perhaps we have nothing more to talk about tonight, do we?" Reina's pulls her head back, gazing at Madalena with a loving sort of vacancy that could mean anything the elder wanted. She looks thoughtful for a moment before her smile widens. "Little sister is so small. Why is that?"

'_Because you want me to be small.' Madalena thinks, with a helpless sort of bitterness. 'Because you would drive me, my lands, and my people into the sea if you could, and settle only for claiming them because you cannot. Because everything and everyone is yours, all because you want it to be so.'_

'_Why must you and father have done such cruelty to the world?'_

Satisfied, Reina steps away from her, apparently having her fill for the night. She doesn't look back at the other as she leaves her sister behind in her tiny room, a room which is hardly more than a cell. Madalena stands by herself only for a little while longer, waiting for the other to retire to her chambers before setting out of her room. She would like nothing more than to rest for the night, but she knows that if her sister finds the mess still outside when she wakes in the morning she will make true on her promise. Carrying out her daily chores was hard enough with both arms functional, there was no need to provoke Reina on something so small.

The sun is long set before she can return to her room, her small feet carrying her to resume her position upon her bed, her feeble energy spent. She lays her head against her pillow, her long hair spreading out beneath her as she draws her small limbs together, wrapping her arms around herself as she closes her eyes.

It was hard to love sister, and it was easy to fear her. It had been that way since they were children, since the eldest three lived with father in a time before Byzantine was born, and before Christianity had ever shown its face onto the world. It was easy to fear sister. It had always been easy to fear sister.

_But hate her?_

That was harder than loving her, much, much harder.

Sister was cold, sister was cruel, elder sister had been perfection in the eyes of their father. But sister was also flesh, like the others, having been born of human mothers. Flesh could be bruised, and flesh could be forced to bleed. Flesh could suffer. Sister had been hurt, and sister had suffered, and there was nothing that Madalena or her brothers had been able to do to stop it. There had been nothing they could have done, yet the guilt still touched upon her mind when her thoughts strayed towards dark things.

She pitied sister. She loved sister [though it was hard]. She feared sister. She always feared sister. A day may come where she may be able to stand against her, to be a nation of her own right, but that day would be long in coming. Madalena was small. Madalena was weak. There was nothing that could be done.

_For now._

Sleep overtakes her weary mind within minutes, mercifully removing her from the world around her. She never even wakes when the child begins to weep.

* * *

**Historical Notes: **This is set at the time when the great schism within the Christian Churches first took place, between the Church in Rome and in the one in Constantinople. France, at this time, had a large amount of control over the Church. Mounting tensions on both sides led to the mutual excommunications of 1054, where Pope Leo IX and Emperor Constantine were unable mediate the deviating branches together.

After the death of the Pope, high ranking members of the Roman Church decided to make their move, having the bull of excommunication delivered to the Hagia Sophia (the largest and most beautiful church in all of the Byzantine Empire), the seat of the Eastern Church, leaving the city enraged and near rioting. The bull was burnt by the Eastern Church's Patriarch [similar to the Roman Catholic's Pope], and the offenders condemned. Rome responded by excommunicating the Byzantine Emperor, essentially condemning the entire Eastern Church.

The two Churches, the Roman Catholic Church and the Eastern Orthodox Church, would never again be united. In the later crusades carried out by the western church, the Byzantine Empire, which was a Christian nation, would eventually be invaded, the Hagia Sophia pillaged and converted into a cathedral [which was an incredibly **dickish **move, I may say]. The Eastern Orthodox Church would be repressed until the Ottoman Empire's invasion almost two centuries later [who in turn made the Hagia Sophia into a mosque. At present date, it is a national museum and still one of the most beautiful and impressive pieces of Byzantine and religious architecture in the world].

**Author's Notes: **Essentially, a proxy battle between the western siblings using the churches (and their patrons) against each other. Portugal would not exist as an independent nation yet, the Iberian peninsula still a battleground for Catholic Spain and the Muslim Moors in the south. There is a small reference to the Holy See, the embodiment of the Catholic Church. Poor little Spain.

**España: **Reina Torquemada de Galicia, eldest child of Rome.  
**Portugal: **Novinha Madalena Graça, youngest daughter of Rome, land controlled by España.  
**Byzantine: **Justinian Isaura Constantine, youngest child of Rome.


	12. Enfants

**Everlasting Night**

**Title: **Prelude to Conflict  
**Chapter 12: **Enfants  
**Characters/Pairings: **France, England  
**Rating: **PG-13.  
**Summary: **They don't stay small. 1212 AD

_Paris, 1212 AD_

"Are you still awake, Angleterre?"

The question only comes out blurry and half slurred, the elder slowly coming out of the blissful peace that had been his slumber. His eyes take a moment to focus, with only the moonlight to help guide them before flitting over towards the form beside him. His eyes quickly move on towards the window, checking how much of the night has already passed. Judging by how the half moon hangs just over the window ledge it was maybe an hour past midnight.

Looking back at his companion, he can see that the boy is sitting upright on the bed, covers discarded as his thin arms were wrapped around his knees. His green eyes had a calm, vacant look to them, something Francis was beginning to see more often in the boy, and it worried him.

To be honest, it sometimes frightened him.

"Angleterre?" His second call goes unanswered, England just sitting there, patiently staring at nothing. Slightly annoyed, Francis lets out a quiet sigh, resigning himself to staying awake as he pulls himself after the boy. It was a warm, humid day though well into autumn; the summer had yet to release its hold upon the land. Even at night, the rooms within the palace still held the heat from the day, warming the occupants from the chill of the coming winter.

The boy is wearing a nightshirt too large for himself, the hem falling below his knees when he stands; now, it just pools around his thighs, the gray cotton matching his pale skin. It strangely suits him, even though he is reaching an age where soon he will be almost more man than boy. Francis himself is only wearing a thin pair of cotton pants, the matching pair to the shirt England wears.

The boy would be leaving the country soon, escorted by Francis along the hundreds of miles that would lead them towards Rome, to where the Holy See and her pope resided. It would be England's first visit, and Francis knew that the boy would be apt to be nervous because of this. They had been bickering with each other for days, the boy finding any excuse to give the elder a hard time. Still, England didn't seem to mind wearing France's borrowed clothing, and at night things were at least relatively peaceful.

Some things had yet to change between them.

England had slept in the same bed as Francis since from when he was young, and even after the years that separated the past from the present, it seems to still be able to comfort the boy, to give peace to the child who had known so little of it in his earliest years. France had never harbored thoughts about the boy, and even as the child was at the cusp of manhood he wasn't about to now. He just enjoyed sharing this quiet peace with England, like they did when England was little more than an infant and Francis' conscious was not yet marred his unnatural guilt. It was nice to remember the past.

It was the future that he wasn't so sure about.

England still doesn't say anything when Francis' hand lands upon his shoulder, the graceful fingers lightly squeezing as he tried to get the boy's attention. "Why aren't you sleeping yet, Arthur?"

At his name, the boy's eyes finally detach themselves from the window, slowly making their way over to Francis as the elder pulled himself up beside the other. Despite the warmth in the room, the boy's skin is cool, a firm contrast to Francis' own which was warm as it always is. Francis' hand moves around the small shoulders, bringing the boy closer into his grasp. Arthur's answer is quiet and steady.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

'_Then what were you doing?_' Francis makes a small wave of his hand, dismissing the other's words. "No, no, it must have been the moonlight that awoke me. Nonetheless," the hands settles back down on his shoulder, "why are _you _up? Growing boys need their rest, and we have a long journey ahead of ourselves."

England nods slightly in an absent sort of way without really answering, and Francis can feel that his attention is still not on him. The boy's breathing is steady, and while it does not seem that he is troubled, there is something unsettling in his vapid calmness. The boy he knew and adored was always fidgety, and knew no such thing as temperance. This boy sitting next to him right now was little more than a stranger.

"Were you having a dream?"

The boy stills for a moment, not stiffening but Francis can feel that his steady breaths have leveled out into almost nothingness. The moment passes, and England nods again. "Yes, just a little one."

"So little that it keeps you up on a night when rest is most important?"

There's a light shrug, and the boys goes back to staring into space. Francis exhales heavily: he knew a thing or two about bad dreams. He had had nightmares for centuries, ever since the first time he realized what his glorious father actually did on his campaigns, when the battlefield was not enough to sate his bloodlust. They had worsened in the years that followed, plaguing him several times a night in the years that shadowed the assault upon his elder sister. Those nightmares had been the worse, the products of a guilty mind fueled by poisoned logic.

Still, eventually they would come to pass and end, as the world around him had moved on. He only prayed it was not yet England's turn to bear such a burden.

He nuzzles his face into England's thin shoulder, sharing his warmth with the boy. "Angleterre, I will have to _beseech_ you to enlighten me upon this matter. You have a dream that keeps you, little Angleterre, awake, and now that I, Francis, know that you are troubled and awake, do you really expect me to lay my head back down and sleep?" Francis smiles into England's shoulder, trying to endear himself into the other to get an answer. He can see enough of the other's face to catch a slight quirking of the boy's lips, but it's gone in an instant. It's not a good sign.

"It was just a dream, Francis. Nothing more."

"But what are dreams but thoughts of the soul, being delegated to the body's mind as you sleep?" The quirk is larger this time, almost a smile before it is gone. It reached his eyes, though, and there's a small smile inside of them. It should make Francis feel better to see it. It should.

"I was having a dream," England starts, his eyes slightly focusing even as they stare into nothingness, "I was having a dream about home."

"Oh." That was something a little unexpected. 'Home' was never exactly a warm subject for England. For the boy, 'home', along those isles in the north, wasn't so much a home to him, but a home to his family, if they could be called that. England may have a king in his land, but the islands still belonged to the Celts, in spirit if not by law. The land still accepted his older brothers and sister as the ones with the right to rule; part of the reason why they were leaving for Rome was to help legitimate his claim upon his land. It would take more than Francis in order to keep England safe on the islands. A slight hush enters his voice. "Was it a bad dream?"

England shakes his head softly, and this time the smile stays in him eyes. "No. It wasn't. I dreamt about them." His eyes flit over towards Francis. "I was dreaming about _all _of them."

Francis nods at this, swallowing briefly as he retracts his arms from the other's shoulder. Using both of his arms to prop himself up, he centers his attention back upon England. A significant part of him does not want to the boy to continue, but he knows better than to give in to such desires. England's business is his own, and he'd be damned before he let himself become a coward. At least, not with England.

"What kind of dream could you have about them that wouldn't be bad?"

England rocks himself with his arms still around his knees, a slight chuckle escaping from his lips. "Oh, but this one was a good one, Francis. I was home, I was finally home. I even knew where I was too."

"What? I know getting lost is a gift of yours, but with such a tiny island even I am surprised." There's a thin flicker of annoyance in the boy's eyes, and Francis is happy to see a hint of England's usually surly self. It doesn't last long, though, and the same calm, empty look comes back. "No, I knew where I was. It was in a field. It was large, open. South of the Grampians, not too far from the coast."

France nods without completely understanding the statement. It is almost a minute afterward that the implications for the message became clear. "Angleterre, I do know where you are speaking of, but dearest, that is in the north. The _far _north. That is not your land up there."

England's eyes slide back over towards Francis, annoyance quietly sheltering a flicker of contempt. "Is that what you think, Francis?"

Francis decides he really doesn't like that look at all. "I'm sure in your dreams you are the lord of the Isle of Britannia and beyond, _Angleterre_, but it would do no good to think such things when you are awake. I'm sure the Celts won't surrender the islands to you without a fight."

The smile is back, and after it quirks on the side of his lips, it stays there. "No, I don't suppose they would. Did you want me to tell you about the dream or would you rather tell me it yourself?"

The rudeness is a bit unnecessary, but it is better than nothing. "By all means, please continue, Angleterre. I will listen until you are done."

"Promise?"

It's an odd thing to request, but Francis doesn't see the harm in it. "Of course." England nods in acceptance, and his eyes move away from Francis again. "Very well now."

"I could hear the sea from where I was. I could even smell it, but not too much; the wind was not blowing the right way." Francis nods, but says nothing, keeping his word. "It was morning I know, that I am sure of. I could _feel _the sun, but I couldn't _see _it yet. I could see enough of the land as to not be disoriented, but it was a strange kind of light. It was warm, like how the sun gets before a thunderstorm."

The boy unwraps an arm from around himself to gesture with his hand, splaying his fingers out before clenching them again, unable to convey the enormity of this thought with simple words. Controlling his frustration, he moves on. "It was strange. Strange, but fitting. I think it made the land look like what it should be." His eyes lose focus again, and it takes a nudge from France to move on.

Nodding to himself, he continues. "It was nice. It was so quiet and pretty, and you could see the mountains well in the low light but they really didn't matter. They're not important, you see." Francis still isn't sure what he should be seeing, but by watching the growth of England's smile he knows that whatever England seeing in his mind pleases him. "It was so quiet and pretty, and there was no one there but them. Only them."

The lips curve into a smile, his top lip curling above his teeth as he resumes his rocking. "They were there, all three of them, but not together, oh no." He lets out a small, almost frantic laugh that ends almost before it begins. He hand reaches out again, looping towards his left with a lazy sort of grace that only children can posses. "That one, he was there, and," now the hands moves to his right, "she, she was there. Two little maids, all in a row." Another laugh escapes his lips, and Francis truly wishes the other would stop. Still, England presses on.

"And there," England's hand point right at the middle, his eyes intent on what he imagined before him, "right there was the one who really mattered, the only one who ever did. The pale one, the old one, the great king of Albion himself." He pulls his arm back onto himself, his hand clutching at the neck of his nightshirt. "_Brother William._"

"And blood." The boy's eyes sparkle with hellish glee. "There was so much blood."

The air in Francis' lungs seems to evaporate in an instant, leaving him feeling half winded as he watched the boy, as the child's body began to be wracked with silent laughter. "There was blood, Francis, there was blood, oh, _there was so much blood!" His _hand yanks down upon the neck of his nightshirt, baring his white throat. _"_Two of them were covered in it, positively _drenched in it_, it was so wonderful. I could barely even see their skin there was so much of it." He was so engrossed in his story he can't see the look of frozen horror on Francis' face, but if he did, he probably wouldn't have cared.

Not when it was _them _who were drowning in their own blood.

"I could even see their faces too, Francis. The both of them." His licks his dry lips, his breaths beginning to steady as his laughter recedes. "Some of it was dried, but so much of it was fresh, even in the morning light you could see how much of it just seemed to _glisten_. I could hardly see her face," he points back to his right, "but her hair was covered in it. His was too, but you could see it better in hers because it was lighter."

His hand reaches up into his own straw-colored hair, his fingers running through his hair. "Some of it was dark, and some of it was light. Dark, and light, dark and light. It was dark where it was dry, you see." His pulls at a lock, showing it towards Francis as if it proved a point. "For the other, it was all just dark. His hair is always dark." He nods as in agreement with himself, needing no other answer.

"And big brother was in the middle, Francis." His hand falls down from his hair, his fingers lightly pressing against his face. "He's too important to be anywhere else. He was there, but he wasn't laying facedown like the other ones, oh no. Big brother wouldn't be on his face, Francis." He shakes his head, his voice lighter, more childlike. "Big brother was on his _knees_, and it looked like he had just fallen to them too, as if he had been standing on his feet right up until I had looked upon him." His smile becomes almost loving.

"Like he was just waiting for me to let him fall."

His words trail off for a moment, and France harbors a fleeting hope that maybe this is it, that this will be enough; he knows better though, and within a few seconds England continues. "William was bloody like the other ones, Francis. But big brother wasn't dead _yet_, though they very much were." His free hand leaves his face, an outstretched finger making invisible circles in the air.

"William's little brother was dead, and his little sister was dead, but _he_ was not dead. Why is that, Francis, that even in my dreams he is always the last one to die?" His eyes gaze quietly at Francis, silently beseeching him for an answer before moving on. "Everyone goes before big brother, everyone dies before big brother. Everyone… but me."

"He was waiting for me, Francis, waiting for me like he might be right now. He had blood on him too, plenty of it around his chest, but not like the others." He shrugs his shoulders, as if it didn't really matter. "Things just weren't finished yet."

"Finished?" This is the first word Francis speaks since England started dictating his dream, though they are barely directed at England. It's not like he can't tell where this will end, but the part of him that still wanted to embrace the boy is too numb to properly understand all of this. This was little England, of all people, not his misguided little brother or sanctimoniously mad sister. England didn't think things like this; England didn't _dream _things like this. England was still young. England was still good.

For the boy, there was still hope…

"I killed him, Francis." His eyes are locked with Francis', unwavering as a tremor passes across his face. "I used brother's own sword against him, like he's used the land against me. I lined the blade against his neck like you taught me, and I remembered to carry the swing through, just like you taught me too." He's smiling again, and it fills his face with such warmth, it sickens Francis. "I think I was bigger in my dream, since it only took one swing to finish the job." His eyes face with determination, and Francis can feel the joy coursing through the child's veins.

"I'm going to get bigger soon, Francis. I'm going to get bigger _real _soon, and once I do I'm going to go back home and I'm going to-"

His words are silenced as a smack echoes heavily in the air, Francis' hand still extended as England's head snaps back. There is nothing for a moment, Francis struggling to reclaim his composure as England's hand gingerly reaches up towards his cheek. The twisted glee in his eyes is eyes is gone; now, instead there is a look of surprise mixed with growing outrage, masking a thin veil of hurt deep down at the core.

There is nothing, and then Francis finds the courage to speak. "Don't you ever say anything like that ever again, Arthur."

The hurt that had been in the boy's eyes is swallowed in an instant, anger rushing to fill its place. "Just what the hell was that for, Francis?! And who are you to tell me what to do? I didn't say a goddamn thing to make you upset." The words cloud Francis' eyes with a veil of sadness, but it passes.

"If you honestly think that, boy, then you don't understand me as well as I've hoped." Francis throws his legs over the side of the bed, standing up straight before making his way over to the other side. England only realizes his intent when he was but a few seconds away, and scrambles towards the other side of the bed as Francis' much stronger arms drag him up off of it.

There's a struggle, but there isn't much of one. England has grown, and he is stronger than he was all those years ago, but he is no match for the man over three times his age. Francis half carries, half drags the younger out of his bed, pulling him out of his room as England proves himself to be the child he really is, shrieking and kicking at France the entire time. It's a long way down the empty passageways, but Francis does not mind; the servants know better than to intrude upon his affairs.

England's protests meet deaf ears as he is dragged towards the palace's entrance, Francis pulling open the heavy wooden door with one arm as he held the writhing boy with the other. He doesn't throw England out of the palace as much as he _allows _the boy to fall from his grasp, England landing heavily on his right arms with a shriek of pain mixed with outrage. Frances takes a step away from him, doing little else but push the boy back when England tries to get back into the palace. "No."

"What do you mean, 'no'?!" England's face is twisted in anger, confusion marring his youthful features as he keeps trying to get past the elder.

"No England. You can't come in."

"And why the hell not?!" England's trying to shove him now, but it does him little good; the older man will not move. The air around them is nothing like the warm air that was in Francis' room, and England begins to feel a chill sweep up his bare legs, the stone cold beneath his feet as he continued his efforts.

"Because I said so, Angleterre. If you're going to talk like an animal, and dream like one too, you ought to start living like one. Homes are for people. Perhaps a night out here will help you remember which one you are."

Francis pushes the other away, turning back to reenter the palace before he finds himself being pulled back. In desperation, England throws his arms around the other, locking his arms around France as he tried not to be left behind. He can feel the boy's chest heaving, his fingers digging into his flesh for purchase as he held on tight.

"You can't leave me out here, Francis. You can't." This voice is different from the one from before, smaller, almost pleading with the other. Francis lets out a breath, trying to steel himself from what he will have to do.

"It's only for a night, Angleterre. If you are prepared to kill a man, this is but little." It doesn't give France any pleasure doing this, not to the boy whom he loves so much, but the child will have to learn.

"Please." There are tears against his back. The need to embrace the boy comes, but Francis wills it away.

If not from him, then perhaps he will learn from someone else, one with less kindness in their heart.

"You can't leave me either, Arthur." The words are quiet, but unlike England's these are firm. "You can't leave me, but you are." England makes a sound of indignant protest, but Francis continues on. "The way you're thinking nowadays, the path you think you want to take, that's somewhere I can't follow, not even for you. Do you have any idea of what will become of you if you do kill them? If you finally succeed in killing them all?"

England's arms tighten around Francis, almost painfully before relaxing. He doesn't say a word, but he doesn't have to: after all of these years, Francis knows him better than anyone else. The boy's silence holds but one answer: he really doesn't care.

Not as long as they are dead.

"You need to think if this is what you truly want for yourself, Angleterre."

"And what about you, Francis?" The boy's nails dig into his skin. "What makes you any different from me? You've already been to war with your brother, and don't tell me you won't with your sisters, even Lena someday. What makes it alright for you to do that, but when I think of it it's wrong?"

Francis looks down at him, dispassionately watching the fury in the child's face. "I go to war with them when it is necessary. What you want is not war with your brethren-"

"What the hell, of course I do-"

Francis' hand clamps down around Arthur's wrist. "No, Angleterre, you do not. You don't want war with them. You just want to kill them. Murder and war is not one and the same."

"Liar!" There's tears in the boys eyes, but Francis can't tell if they are more of the product of grief or rage. "What differences does it make when people still die? Why is it ok for the rest of you when it isn't for me?!"

The urge to embrace the boy come over him again, but he wills it to pass. "It is never ok, Angleterre. War out of hate is only murder."

'_And war done out of love is only masochism.'_

Francis pries the boy's off from around him, but when England tries again to pull him back, he doesn't have to push hard to let him go. He steps back into the palace between shutting the door, pausing only for a moment before he finally latches it just as he had intended to do.

For a while, the only sound accompanying him in the empty halls is his own footsteps as he returns back to his bedchamber. He is only halfway there when he can hear a pounding against the door, the sound loud in the silence as small fists beat against the wood. He's just stepping into his chambers when he can begin the hear the other first start to shout, the boy's thin, angry voice screeching curses at him as he continued his assault against the door.

The bed somehow seems less inviting than it was when he first laid his head down upon it only a few hours ago. The room, which once felt so warm, suddenly feels cold, as if the emptiness now inside of it could manifest itself into something that could drain the warmth from around him. The yells change their tones, the boy's shouts shifting into pleading before shifting back to curses again. He doesn't know how long the boy will last before his voice gives out, but he'll be the first one to know when it does.

Francis pulls the covers around him, the bed sheets giving little comfort as he carries out the motions of rest. The boy is still screaming at him, still pleading, still begging to be let back in as he cursed Francis in his second breath. There may be no sleep for either of them tonight, but Francis knows he will have many sleepless nights ahead of him. His fingers lightly trace over the nail marks in his arm, feeling the little crescents that cut into his flesh, the tiny beads of blood welling in their depths.

He wonders when will it be the next time that England makes him bleed.

The boy had reason to hate his siblings, had every _right _to despise the elders, but there was a place where the line had to be drawn. If not here, then where; if not now, then when? What would become of England if he was to carry out his wish, not to drive the Celts out of the Isles but to drown them in their own blood?

And what would he become, the child that France had protected and loved and still had been helpless to shield from the world around him?

They have a busy day planned for tomorrow, but Francis does not sleep as the moon finishes its arc across the sky. All he can pay attention to is the shouts from outside as they become fainter and fainter, and the sobs and cursing becomes one and the same.

* * *

**Historical Note: **This would coincide with England's new status as a tribute paying vassal to the Holy See, which would last until the 14th century. There was much disorder in England at this time, with reign of Richard I ending with his brother John's ascension to rule, which marked a decline in the sovereignty of England (first in 1194 when it became a nominal vassal to the Holy Roman Empire). This is still a time before England would be able to wage [successful] war upon the other kingdoms vying for power within the isles. At this point in time, France still held strong influence over the kingdom, especially under the future reigns of Henry III and Edward II.

**Author's Notes: **Growing pains tend to hurt everyone involved. We all know how things turn out for the Celts, and the kind of man England eventually becomes to solidify his kingdom. Nothing that hadn't been done before, that is for sure, yet that never makes it any easier. The palace is the same from chapter 7, and the name reference is to the younger sister of Francis.

**Up Next: **Bactria, 330 BC: Proof that peace can be more than just a dream, even if only for a little while.


	13. Katapίsteyma

**Everlasting Night**

**Title: **Prelude to Conflict  
**Chapter 13: **Katapίsteyma  
**Characters: **Ancient Greece and Persia  
**Rating: **PG-13.  
**Summary: **Can alliances built upon sand ever be anything more? 330 BC

_Bactria, the Far Eastern Edge of the Persian Empire, 330 BC_

An eagle cries out above him; he hardly even notices it, so intent upon his purpose. His footsteps are wary, steadily bringing him closer and closer to her as he cautiously crossed the desert sand.

In the hours following the battle, most of what remained of the opposing army had already slinked away, retreating as the Greeks did their best to regroup their numbers. The battle had been hard, it had been fierce, but that was then and this was now: there was a somber silence from within his camp, and out here where the battle had been in earnest, there was nothing but the quiet rustle of the wind, the wasteland slowly reclaiming the battleground as the sand began to bury the dead.

There would be no celebrating tonight.

In retrospect, he probably still would have approached her even if he had more time to analyze the situation. For all he knew, it _could _have been a trap, a bold and desperate move to defeat their enemy when all else seemed lost. Still, he had seen the last remnants of the army retreating hours ago, and aside from his own men he couldn't sense any one else for miles around.

That he would have been able to determine had he merely stood back to analyze the situation. That wasn't, however, why his steps drew him closer and closer to her form, leading him farther and farther away from the safety of his guards and his king.

In his eyes, she was just a woman, _alone_, kneeling beside a corpse amid a sea of bodies.

Even with his intentions neutral, he isn't foolish enough to not be aware of the danger. Female or not, she is a nation; an _old _nation, an _enemy _nation, the one he had been fighting all of these years. Years that had been exhausting, years where the threat of losing his kingdom had not just been a possibility but a battle away.

_Years_.

Years that she had gone through the same exhaustion, the same frustration at having strength but unable to use it as she wished. And now, after all of this time, it seemed like that waiting had finally come to an end. It was over. Or at least, the fighting was over. Now he had to see where they would go from here.

And the first step towards that was figuring out what he was going to do, with _her._ Perhaps that would be his most important step of all.

She doesn't move as he approaches, but he holds no pretenses of surprise: she would have sensed him approaching miles away. The fact that she was kneeling there, immobile in her silence, meant little other than that she had felt no desire to move. Bodies littered the grounds, the fresh corpses of Greeks and Persians alike merged together in their death throes in the battle that had raged in the hours before.

Where she knelt, however, was different from the rest of the land. There were far fewer corpse here, this part of the field far removed from the rest of the battlefield. Here lay only one body, only one corpse as the woman knelt beside it. It was just that, this one corpse, this one…

_Was the only one that mattered._

He's only a few feet away from her now, almost in striking distance if he so choose to take that path. The hilt of his sword hung loose around his waist, the blade still stained with the blood of her men, with his own splattered along the hilt, but he had no intention of drawing it. Not now. It would just be an insult at this point, with her army already defeated and gone. There was no need to humiliate her anymore than she already was, even if much of it was only in her mind.

Now it's only two feet, and his breath is heavy in his chest. By protocol he would have to address her by now, whatever his intentions may be; however, there really isn't anything that comes to mind to say at the moment, and even with the tension in the air there is a hint of awkwardness, almost embarrassing considering the situation. It's times like these that remind him how young he is compared to so much of the world. He can think of nothing to say to her, and can't bring himself to touch her, not even to lay a hand upon her shoulder.

Instead, he exhales, and taking one step closer to her, he kneels down beside her. It is the only thing he can think to do.

She doesn't bother acknowledging him as he kneels down alongside her. He is mostly squatting, really, keeping his knees above the grim that coated the earth around them. In contrast, she kneels perfectly upright, both of her knees set firmly against the ground, despite the blood that darkens the ground. He supposes that, at this point, she couldn't really be bothered to care. Where she was didn't really matter at this point. Not now.

Aléxandros' eyes survey the scene before him as he resists the urge to bring his hand over his face. The view is worse up close, much worse. The body is still mostly fresh, with perhaps the last vestiges of warmth still lingering at its core. He can tell its fresh because the blood still flows sluggishly from the largest of wounds, the man's robes drenched in his own blood. She had removed the blades from his body, the broken javelin heads lined beside her with an aberrant sense of efficiency. His eyes move from the discarded blades to her hands, her fingers covered in dried blood which did not belong to her.

Flies have already begun to converge around the body, alighting upon the corpse before taking off again, as if realizing their mistake. The wind picks up around them, dispelling the flies as it brought a small shower of debris. She doesn't move as the wind blows some errant strands of her hair about her face, her features frozen in a quiet display of rage.

_And grief_.

His eyes move away from her face, wishing to leave her with some semblance of privacy at this moment. He doesn't want to disturb her, but his men are already getting restless and they have to move on soon, and he can't exactly _leave _her here. They have to get going, and him squatting here quietly besides her isn't exactly aiding in that goal.

He steels himself with a quick prayer, and for the first time in his life he speaks directly to her, using her own language as best as he can.

"We will have to bury the body. We cannot just leave him here."

There's nothing for a second, and then for another: almost a minute passes before he gets any sort of response. Had she not have been kneeling stock still for all of this time, he would have accounted the slight nodding of her head as just her just shifting to maintain her balance. It's a response though, conveying all that she wished to say.

'_I know.'_

His eyes move back towards the corpse, and then he drops to a knee; he uses one hand to balance himself, and the other reaches up over his shoulder. She stiffens for a moment, and he regrets the sudden movement; his next ones are slower, an effort to maintain her calm as he continued to remove his cloak. It isn't much, the cloth already half covered with dirt and speckled with the blood of Persian and Greek men, but it is something, and her king needs to be covered. He has already been exposed to the elements enough, and this isn't the way Darius should be treated, enemy or not.

He knows he really shouldn't touch her king, but he knows touching her would be even worse, and there is no other way for the body to be covered unless he does it himself. His movements are stiffer than he would wish, the weeks of campaign taking a tool on his body as it did with his men. Still, he gets the job done, making sure that the head is properly covered before he settles back into his half-kneeling stance. Throughout all of this she doesn't move, making no movement to help him or hinder his efforts, lost in whatever thoughts she had, far away from everything that surrounded her.

_Far away from him._

They were still going to have to move.

'My lady?" His words are plainly spoken, his trust in his ability to speak in her language considerably less than it was when he studied it in Athens. Nonetheless, it provokes a reaction, but too late does he realize his mistake. From the stiffening of her shoulders and the hard line that her lips form, he could tell that that address was both inappropriate and insulting, perhaps less so under different circumstances but here it s just an additional injury. Taking a breath, he calms himself and tries again, but this time in Greek.

"Η κυρία μου?"

Her eyes narrow at him, but this time he can see that she understands him, both his words and their intention. Emboldened, he continues.

"I kyría mou, den boroúme na meínoume edó. "

'_We cannot stay here.'_

She looks at him hard for a long moment, but says nothing. Instead, she just turns back, her eyes fixed upon the corpse of her dead king. Uncomfortable, he shifts his stance, trying to rebalance himself beside her. Asking for any sort of cooperation would still seem like too much at this point, and at least she hasn't turned violent. Yet.

And it's not that she has any reason to want to help him, of course.

The past few centuries had been nothing but on-again off-gain warfare between the two, with the gains and loses of each war rewritten with each subsequent campaign. Tens of thousands dead on both sides, each one an anathema in the kingdom of the other. There was enough hatred festering in the populations of their cities and beyond, with each generation of youth carrying enough anger to fuel another thousand years of war.

All of this and more, and he had still yet to learn her name.

He turns his head away from her, struggling to keep her from seeing the involuntary twitch at the edge of his lips. It's less of a smile, and more like a grimace._ 'That's kind of disappointing of you, _Aléxandros_.'_

'_I was kind of hoping you'd do better than this.'_

"Η κυρία μου-"

"_What?" _Her tone is blunt and curt, her Greek pleasant if not for it's hostility. Unwilling to drop her hateful gaze, he continues on. "We need to leave as soon as po-"

"_I know."_

Then again there is silence, the tension swelling and ebbing around them in a grotesque sort of dance. He fights off the waves of nauseating frustration that tell him he's only making things worse, and tries to refocus on why he is here.

"There are already flies on the body, we have to move it as soon as possible. I can carry him if you-"

"Why would you?"

He pauses for a moment, and hopes that his language does not fail him. "Because he has to be buried. We cannot leave him here, and we must move on. We can bring him back to Persepolis if you lik-"

"And what does it matter, what _I _want?" Bitterness tinges her words, somehow sullying the anger. He breathes in, remembering that this is no easier for her and trying to find peace in that.

"Because he _was _your king." Her eyes are fixed to where Darius' face is covered by his cloak, and her nails dig deeper into her palms. Perhaps it was not the most delicate way of phrasing it, but he cannot say that the man lying dead before them is _still _her king. It would do her no good, to promote a delusion to shield her from the fact that things will no longer be as they are.

That they will never be what they were, ever again.

"We can bring him back to the city, to Persepolis. He will have a proper funeral, an _honorable_ one, you can be assured-"

"Why do you care how he is buried? Why does this mean anything to you?"

He bites back words of frustration, praying for patience. "Because it ought to be done. Because it is the right thing to do."

"For you, this is right?" There's an empty quality to the words, as if she starts not to care about them as they continue to come out from between her lips. "As long as the body is buried and out of sight, that is enough for you?"

The hostile tone that had been in her words before is almost gone, but what replaces it is somehow worse. "I don't understand what you mean-"

"Why not just bury us both together? Would not that just be easier, for _you_? What difference would it make in the end, when you still need to press on…"

"_Then what do you want?" _He didn't want to snap at her, but there doesn't seem to be any right way to speak to her. "What could you possibly want _now_ that would make you happy?"

She looks back at him, with dull rage muted in her eyes. It was a stupid question to ask, but he couldn't help himself.

Happy?

The closest thing that could possibly make her happy now would be his head being removed from his shoulders, her armies revived, and her king still beside her. Happiness was something alien to her now, something not even to be mentioned.

Shamed at his anger, he takes a moment to regain his bearing, and he changes his direction. "What would you want for him, my Lady? What would you want for your king?"

Her gaze does not waver, but this was the right question to ask. A long moment passes before her eyes move back towards the body, the hand closest to it unclenching. There is a slight shift in her chest, as if she draws breath for the first time. "What do I want for my king? What would anyone want for their king?" Her unclenched hand reaches out towards the corpse, caressing the covered body with her bloodied hand. His eyes trace the ascent of her fingers towards where her murdered king's face lies, the calloused fingers surprisingly gentle against the tattered cloth.

"I want to find them." Her words are quiet, her voice husky as she speaks in an almost dreamlike calm. "I want to find the men who took my king away from me. I want to hunt them down, even if I have to drive them to the ends of the world." Her eyes flit back towards Aléxandros, the cobalt blue of her eyes harsh with resolve. "That is what I want."

He maintains her gaze for several moments before nodding. "I understand." Would he have not wanted the same thing, if his own king, the one who shared his name, had been slain so savagely, so treacherously? "Is this all that you desire?"

Her eyes become dull again, and she looks away. "I would have no need for anything else. I would want nothing else. It would be done."

He knows what she's implying, and any protests he may make to the contrary won't be believed at this point. He'll have to make her believe somehow that her life will not end just because this battle is over, that his thoughts differ from those of his former kings. It will be hard, but he will have to try.

"Then," he moves slightly closer to her, careful to leave her as much space as she requires as he claims the brunt of her attention. "as soon as we inter him properly," one of his hands reaches out towards Darius' corpse, wary not to touch him, "we can begin our search for these traitors in earnest." His eyes become fixed upon her face.

"Would this satisfy you, my Lady?"

As a defeated empire, there is really only one answer that could be given to such a question. Nonetheless, many long moments pass between them before she raises her eyes to meet his own. There is still a dullness lingering in them, yet they are firm.

"Yes."

'_It is all that I want.'_

He nods again, and the silence between them feels lighter. He drops to his knees before reaching down towards the corpse, prepared to stop should she show any signs of dissent. Aside from a slight stiffening of her shoulders, there is none, and his arms move under the body, lifting it up with minimal effort.

Perhaps by rights she should have been the one to carry him, not because the task was beneath him but because the man had been her king. However, he would never have allowed her to take it, not only because it was a corpse that the defeated empire would have to have borne, but because she was a woman.

It was merely not how it was to be done.

Once standing upright, he turns back towards his men, his guard warily watching him from a distance. His king is not far behind them, his eyes carefully moving between the two empires with a guarded look of concern. He knows his king had longed to end Darius' life, had followed him across the lands of the Persian Empire with cold determination to rid the world of the man whom he had called tyrant. All of this, which ended once the former Persian King was found dying alongside of his empire, left to die a dog's death delivered to him by the advisors for whom he had entrusted with his life.

The hate that had driven his Macedonian king to fight the last ruler of the Persians had faltered when they had taken Babylon, and after treating the city with respect his resolve evaporated once this final treachery was found. Greece held no doubts about where his king's intentions may lie, knowing that the man who had spared Babylon and grieved the death of his enemy would not harm the conquered nation. There had already been enough bloodshed.

Now…

Now would be the time to rebuild.

* * *

_Persepolis, 330 BC_

Greece parts from his king as Darius' body is sent back to Persepolis, along with the woman part of the escort for the dead king. The Persian city is not as grand as Babylon, but it is fine and it is still beautiful, and the fallen king's burial will be one of full honors. The city, held by the Greeks for months, had been less revered than Babylon had been, and Aléxandros is ashamed to lead the woman back into her city when it had been left in such a state.

Still, it fares far better than his Acropolis which she had burned during their second war, but that was something he would never mention. Besides, that was in the past.

She is silent alongside him, offering the minimal cooperation and few words to him. When they entered Persepolis, he knows that the people of the defeated city rejoice silently in their hearts at the sight of her. It lifts his heart to see it, since the misery of the people would do nothing to help create the unified world that his king and himself had longed for in the years before this.

They call out to her, in a name he doesn't quite understand but one that has meaning to them. Even in their defeat, she was still their empire. Their queen.

_Their goddess._

When her king is finally put to rest alongside of his ancestors in the royal tomb, they leave her city, swift to regain the distance lost between himself and his king. He knows that she is eager to leave, with the men who had betrayed Darius still hiding in the mountains that lined the eastern edge of what was once her empire. Once, and only once, does he take the time to ponder, to wonder if her desire to leave is fueled more by her need to avenge her fallen king-

-or to leave the lands which no longer belonged to her.

After thinking such thoughts, he banished them from his mind, ashamed at his own cynicism and lack of respect.

* * *

Darius had been but a small man, no match for the likes of Xerxes and others of his name before him. He held none of the greatness that could inspire men, and not the goodness to make his goddess grieve for him. But that was not the reason why she still held grief, and was not the reason why she held rage.

She had not loved her king, but had accepted him. She had not admired the man, but had been patient with him. The blood of her kings flowed through his veins, and while his body was but of a man, the idea that he had represented had been much more than that.

By accepting him as her king, he had been the one man out of many who had been given the divine blessing of the land, a servant to her and her alone as he was to carry out her will. As such, he was not subject to the judgment of ordinary men, who held no right to trespass against the wishes of their nation.

The fact that he could not defeat the Macedonian king had not been what had angered her the most. The fact that he had been killed, _murdered _by his own advisors, men whom he had placed his trust in, had been unforgivable. The Greeks believed differently, but in her lands the king held the right to rule from his nation, not from his advisors. That any man, Persian or not, had thought that he had known better than her…

He could understand her rage. He could respect her for her drive, which kept her head high for her people even in the face of defeat. He supposed that even if the Furies did not exist in her land, she was more than capable of performing their task.

Through it all she was almost always beside him, not desiring to be anywhere near him but required to by the other. In the weeks and months that followed her defeat, he had kept her near not to humiliate her, since ridicule had no place in his heart. He could not leave her to herself, since he would neither allow her to plot against him nor risk allowing her to end her own life, her shame overpowering her desire to live.

Also, he would not leave her amongst the others. Though he trusted the generals and men who served under him, many [_too many_] saw no need to allow a defeated enemy to live when treachery lurked around the corner. He could hardly blame the men for their feelings, having been drilled with such hatred of those in the East since when they were children.

However, he had first approached her knowing that her life would not be forfeit in her defeat, and the disrespect of his men towards a empire far older than himself would not sway that.

He would make them understand, make them understand the dream that he and his king had dreamt for the world.

* * *

_Sogdiana, 328 BC_

He is disappointed at the caliber of the men who had betrayed Darius. It is not so much battle as it is slaughter, hounding the traitors across Bactria as they fled for their treacherous lives. Weeks transform into months, months into years as he moves into the steppes of Scythia, hunting the guerrilla armies lead by false kings as she remained by his side, her hands mercilessly ending the lives of the men who had deprived their goddess of her king.

She remains beside him, as unwilling as ever but still alive. At times, he worried her intentions, as each straggler was hunted down and killed, that once the task of avenging her king had been completed, that she may lean back towards ending her life with dignity than live on as a conquered empire.

Greece had talked to his king several times before, and had chastened the errant generals who still held contempt from those far older and different from themselves. Her lands were to be preserved, her cities not subject to vengeful violence that had marred their arrival into Persepolis. His young king had been quick to agree, understanding the sense of preserving his supply lines, not wishing to make the thousands of miles between here and the homeland impossible to hold. The others are less easily convinced, but as they press further into Asia the men have little room for idle thought as they engage every rebellious tribe they face.

And there are always more.

"_My hand does not tire." _This is what she tells him at his frustration when their progress almost grinds to a halt in Sogdiana. Her eyes are watching him, a rebuke mixed with something that could almost have been a shadow of encouragement. If she has a way with words, it is only because she uses so few to convey so much.

He's thoughtful for a moment when she says this to him, and has to turn his face away to hide his grin.

He is so far from home, hundreds and hundreds of miles away from his land. Yet, as each day they press farther and farther into the continent, with his king and former rival by his side, he finds himself content.

* * *

_Bactria, 327 BC_

She hates him, he has no doubt of that.

He would have been more surprised if she didn't.

He had deprived her of her sovereignty, ending her rule over her own land. He had killed her people, his armies having faced off against her own and had claimed victory with her men's blood when he could. He had deprived her of her right to die, disregarding her wish to end her life with honor as she lived as a part of his empire. All of this he had done without regret.

But regret would have entitled more than just remorse for his actions. He could not afford such a feeling, with the glory and pride of his people and their king riding on his shoulders as he led the young Macedonian across the lands where few of the west had gone before. He could not feel regret, when his people needed him to be strong for them, as surely as he needed them to be strong for himself.

As surely as she had to be strong for her own people.

No, regret was not the right word.

But he took no pride in her dishonor, and treated her with a quiet respect even as she shunned his company. As a nation he could feel little for her, a woman who in the years to come may no longer have a land to return to even if the Greek's hold fell in Asia. However, whether by the gods or some other force he had been made also into a man, a testament to the flesh of his people whom he protected and loved dearly.

As a man he could empathize with her situation. As a man, he could feel compassion.

And he could desire friendship.

In the months and years that they had traveled with his armies, he had feared less and less that she may do something to harm herself. She was not a woman of dramatics, being as serious and severe as any of his generals who had seen decades of warfare. He was more used to his young friend in the west, who was much more childish than Persia or himself.

Some of her men are even assigned to her, not enough for a rebellion but enough to maintain her peace of mind. The Persian people are not his servants, and in the years following the fall of her king so many of them join the ranks of his armies. Her generals are alongside his generals, her advisors given the same deference as those his king had brought from Macedonia and Greece all that time ago, an instant in his eyes but almost half the lifetime of some of these men.

Some did not accept her still: he knew, that was to be expected. As boys most had been taught that civilized society only existed within Greece, that as one pressed deeper and deeper into Asia men lost their humanity and the savage races reigned supreme. The Empire of Persia was said to be one of barbarians, and even in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary, some minds were still slower to mend.

Nonetheless, there was a growing respect amongst his generals, as his king treated her not as an inferior but with the same deference he held for his own empire. She remains by his side, still hating him but her anger is long since cooled, her desire to maintain the pride of her people far outshining anything else in her mind. He knows that she is a soldier at heart, just as surely as he knows himself to be a philosopher. There is nothing wrong with either, even though the paths of the two seldom join in peace.

Her name is Elaheh, that one thing he does know about her. To her people, that word is the same as goddess, and he can understand that well.

She is not beautiful, that he knows. Her frame is unlike the women whom birthed his men back in Greece, this woman feminine in only the barest respects. Her shoulders are broad as her hips are narrow, her height more similar to that of a man though far slenderer than one. Her hair is as long as it is dark, pulled plainly away from her face as if she was just a common soldier than the one who had ruled these lands for thousands of years before. She is not beautiful, but she compels him.

Even at this time few words pass between them, but knowledge is still slowly obtained. She is old, far older than himself, a sister to the nation of Egypt that lived far to the west of these lands. And she was cold, needing not the comforts that man require as she lived her life in a sort of private solitude. They sleep together, not in the same bed but in the same chambers, both laying to rest far away from the other. He allows her as much privacy as he can, and in turn she does not undermine him. As the months meld into each other, it becomes a ordinary occurrence, nothing controlling nor sexual about it.

Only once does he wake up to find her hovering over him. It had been in the dead of night, a week after his king had decided to claim his first bride, a young woman of Bactria. There had been silence in the halls of this wing of the palace, the revelry from the days before calmed as they prepared to move farther east. He had woken up for no reason at all, opening his eyes in the darkness to see the silent figure above him. She is not touching him, though she is close, an arm propping her up over him as her knees rested along either side of his waist.

It takes a few moments before he can properly asses the situation, the confusion of sleep tugging at his mind. Perhaps it is the wine he had before he laid himself down to sleep, or perhaps it is her silence, which seems unnatural, not even a breath to be heard: nonetheless, he finds that he does not panic, and only moves his eyes up towards her face.

He cannot see her expression, with her face cast in shadows, but even in his drowsy state he can believe what may be upon it. Not hatred, because her anger ran cold, but indifference, her expression devoid of any of the passions that plagued mankind. There would be no hate in her eyes but instead muted curiosity, wondering if perhaps killing off her rival now while he laid defenseless in sleep may finally be worth it.

He had reasoned with himself several times before, that sleeping near her was no more dangerous than sleeping far away from her, since killing him would only lead to his armies seeking vengeance against her people, slaughtering the populace as her armies had long since been disbanded. To kill him would lead to the slaughter of her people, and he had decided that she would never commit such a brash act, not for a woman whose people justified her very existence.

To be honest, those words seemed to hold more sway in the daylight.

He cannot see her left hand, and he knows that if she had any fatal intention it would be concealed there. He knows this as he knows that it was foolish to let himself be in this position, as he knew so many other things in this world. So much knowledge, and for _what_?

However, whether it was from the wine or his own weariness, he finds himself drifting away. She is a far better strategist than himself in such matters, and as sleep tugs back on the corners of his mind somehow it seems logical to trust the decision to her, as if she would truly know which path was wiser: the one with slitting his throat, or the one without it.

He is falling back asleep, and in his illogical calm he lets himself drift away, letting sleep take its hold upon him. Whatever may or may not have happened, he awakes several hours later, the day's first sunlight reaching into his rooms. The memories of the night are slow in returning, and in the daylight hour it seems more like a dream than anything else.

How could it have been something else, when to trust his life to an enemy would be something the Empire of Greece would never do, would never allow the fate of his people to be so easily changed. He wouldn't have trusted her with such a decision, and she would not have been trusted to act in such a way that Alexandros would still be alive in the morning.

Of course not.

He does not mention the incident, nor does she, and in the remaining months and years they will be together it is never discussed.

She is still more enemy than she will ever be ally, and it disturbs him at times, to be so near someone so cold in her thoughts and actions as she. Still, he prefers her company, her presence alleviating some of the loneliness he felt being so far from his home.

Another year passes.

* * *

_The Hindu Kush, 327 BC_

The anger still remains within her, but it is muted there, as if it's existence is a formality and nothing else. They speak, though they do not converse, they remain near to one another while remaining strangers. Still, it is not that undesirable.

It is not friendship, and it is not trust, but it is something equally valuable. She is not beautiful, but nor is he; she is not loyal, but she is constant, honest in her actions. They lay closer together at night, and during the day their presence is but one and the same.

_And time is passing._

His king talks about returning home, and he is not grieved to hear him speak of such. Even in victory he has become weary, an he will need to return to his lands soon to replenish his strength. However, to re-cross the land that had taken half a decade to conquer would not be desirable, with having risked the wastelands once his men were not eager to try again.

Because of that, his king wants to press onward, to find a way back home via the rivers and seas that marked the edges of their world. Alexandros agrees, not so much out of knowledge of the land but out of his curiosity, wondering if they will be able to bring civilization to this land, to make it a part of the empire that every Greek and Macedonian and even Persian could be proud of.

They agree to press on, past the Hindu Kush into the land where so few had gone before, where in the myths and legends of their home the world was supposed to end.

_India._

The woman makes no contributions to the argument, only quietly agreeing with the decision Greece finally creates. For some reason, he does not press for her opinion, too lost in determining the course of the land with his king without the benefit of her knowledge, without the years that knew well how the land of that faction-cursed empire laid.

She says nothing, standing closer to Alexandros as he prepares his armies to invade India. She says nothing, but had he looked into those eyes which normally held so little emotion, he could have seen a flicker of anticipation, a glimmer of satisfaction.

Had he of understood of what he was about to embark, perhaps the world would have ended up as a different place.

_If only…_

* * *

**Historical Notes: **Chronicles the mid part of Alexander the Great's campaign into Eastern Asia (330-327 BC of the 334-323 BC period). Having captured the Persian strongholds of Babylon and Persepolis, he could have announced victory, but pressed on, chasing down the Persian King Darius III, who fled with the Greek's army advances. However, by 330 BC, his advisors had grown weary of him, and ahead of a Greek advance his two most trusted men, Bessus, a satrap, and the head of his guard, Nabarzanes, bound him and stabbed him with javelins, and left him in an oxcart to die.

When Alexander and his men found they body, it was grievous to Alexander. He had sought to honorably defeat Darius, and had been denied that victory via treachery. He covered the bloodied corpse with his own cloak, and ordered the body back to Persepolis to be buried with full honors. Afterwards, having acquired fully the throne of the Persian Empire, he hunted down the conspirators, executing them all. Though the Empires of Greek and Persia had been enemies for centuries, Alexander was known to have treated the conquered people exceptionally well, not subjecting them to the same humiliations common to defeated armies (though Persepolis had been looted and partially burned, though it may have been via accident).

After this, his armies pursued across Asia, eventually reaching the Hindu Kush mountains and prepared to advance into what was known as the end of the world: India.

**Author's Notes: **A slight mention of Rome by Greece, in their more happier times. Why would a defeated Persia be happy, descending upon India with what was then the greatest army in the world?

Η κυρία μου, δεν μπορούμε να μείνουμε εδώ. - I kyría mou, den boroúme na meínoume edó. - My Lady, we can not stay here.  
Καταπίστευμα - Katapίsteyma -Trust  
Αλεξανδρος - Alexandros - Alexander

**Next Up:** You can only hide for so long. India, 327 BC


	14. Surakṣita

**Everlasting Night**

**Title: **Prelude to Conflict  
**Chapter 14: **Surakṣita  
**Characters: **Aryan, India  
**Rating: **PG-13.  
**Summary: **You can only hide for so long.

_Delhi, 520 BC_

Silence greets him as he led his troops into the city.

In honesty, he is glad for it, the silence and the dark of the night that envelopes them all in a comforting embrace. It cools his aching flesh and hides the wounds that are a signal of his defeat. His steps are heavy as he dismisses his men, sending them off to be away from him. They had fought hard, and had fought well for him, but in this defeat he could not bear the sight of them any more than necessary. It was if their grief bleed out to him, their frustration and disappointment filling him with contempt for them and himself.

Still he supposed he had been lucky: she hadn't come down herself, down from her palace in the desert to fight him. Instead, she had sent her hordes of men, who were by blood descended from the same men that his own were from, allowing the two groups, who centuries ago would have been family, to slaughter each other as enemies.

Sister was cruel.

But her men had only gone so far, and it seemed that they would not follow, at the very least not yet. They had taken what they wanted, and perhaps a little more, but they had be sated. For now.

Until then, he and India would be safe.

His only companion along his path to his chambers is his own footsteps, his heavy footfalls seeming to echo the guilt in his heart for losing territory.

_Her territory_.

When all was said and done, it hadn't been a _brutal _loss, since the land was in the northwest, where the rugged mountains were only interrupted by vast steppes of wasteland, devoid of life (at least compared to the south). Only along the Indus was there any similarity to the heart of the subcontinent. It marked an uneasy border, too close to his stronghold to feel safe.

Only time would tell if Elaheh would try and press further into his lands.

_Their lands._

Sooner than he wanted, his feet lead him towards her wing of the palace. It was quiet here, with even the servants seeming to avoid the area. With so much of the palace opening up to courtyards and gardens, one could almost always hear the songs of birds echoing throughout the hallways. Here, though, it seemed even the boldest songbirds dared not sing.

_She was angry with him._

_Now, more than before._

His cracked and calloused hands brush aside the diaphanous hangings, the fabric falling away from his fingers as if it was running water. A handful of candles made a poor task of lighting up the room, leaving most of it shrouded in shadows, an ominous sort of emptiness surrounding him. Normally, even when she wasn't in here the room was always left alit, the candles left to guide the path of a small form that may seek shelter in between her sheets. However, that was no longer necessary.

Only the two of them remained.

She was sitting with her back against her headboard, glaring towards the emptiness with a determined look of hate in her eyes. His head hangs a bit, but that doesn't change anything.

"I'm sorry."

Her expression doesn't shift, and if anything, her eyes just get darker.

'_I'm sorry.'_

He stumbles as he makes his way over to her, dumping the rest of his gear onto the floor without much concern. It just consists of his tattered mantle and battle-dulled sword, barely the remnants of a conquering hero. She doesn't move to help him, and he steadies himself again. It seemed to be happening more and more often lately, his steps not quite as perfect as they had once been, his eyesight not as consistent as it was when he first crossed the Hindu Kush.

It was nothing, probably. Just the result of his latest failure.

'_I'm sorry.'_

After what seems like an age, he sits down beside her upon the bed. She stiffens for less than half of a moment, but it's just a reflex. There really isn't that much to be worried about him now, not at this point.

His back arches stiffly as his hands hang limply between his knees, his eyes staring weakly at them. The silence in the room is deafening, a smothering sort of loathing that seemed to bleed out from her. Each breath from his lungs seems to be another stab in his chest, but he knows this will pass. The pain in his body will only remain for so long, but he is less sure about her hatred. He waits for her to speak first.

"Why did you bother to come back?" The words are low and quiet, and remind him of a serpent preparing to strike.

He brings his hands up, cradling either side of his head as his elbows rested against his knees. "Sayara," he had dropped formalities long, and her name while still so beautiful on his lips began to taste like venom, "This is still my kingdom. I can come and go as I please." The words seem to be more than an excuse than anything else, barely even an attempt to defend himself.

"Why did you come back _alone?_"

His fingers more over his closed eyes, trying to soothe the worn-out skin. He exhales heavily, and tries to think of something to say. This time, not even an excuse masquerading as reason comes to mind. He can feel that her eyes are boring into his back, burning him as he feels something within himself shrink.

'_I'm sorry.'_

Behind his back, her thin lips curl into a sneer. "Be gone from here. What use are you to me?"

"I tried-"

"_And it wasn't enough_." It's not fair that she's doing this, when he can barely even hold his head up.

"I did all that I could-"

"_And you should have rotted in the mountains before you came back here-"_

"_**I don't have to explain myself to you!"**_

With the last outburst he finally turns to face her, a look of anguished need upon his face pitted against her look of unrepentant loathing. He moves to close the distance between them as she backs away, his hand reaching out to her as hers lashes out, her nails raking across his left cheek. He ignores the flash of pain as his fingers clasp around her wrist, pushing her back as her other hand thrusts against his face. Her arms are fueled by her hate, but his body is still larger, and as he pushes her down his arms wrap around her, immobilizing her.

She lets out a shriek, and struggles in his grasp, slamming her head back against his face as her nails claw against his arms. However, her thrashing only makes him hold on tighter, and he buries his face against her hair against her neck to keep her from breaking his nose. "Please, just stop." His words come out as a half sob, Amar repeating the same mantra over and over again as she continued to writhe in rage.

"Please, just let me hold you."

After what seems like half an eternity she finally stops, still hissing in anger as her movements finally still. He can feel his arms bleeding, but he doesn't really care; she finally seemed to calm, and besides, this is her own bed that she is bloodying. Suppose she doesn't mind sleeping between bloodied sheets.

Something Elaheh probably enjoyed as well…

His thoughts are interrupted as he feels movement from her, somewhat different from before. His arms, bloodied as they were, can feel a steady heaving of her chest, her hands balled into fists over her face as her nails dug into her skin. Her breathing feels almost labored, and his arms just wrap gentler around her.

"I'm sorry."

"Why did you come back?" Which was half a sentence. He knew what the other, unspoken part was.

_Why did you come back without __**him**__?_

He pulls her even closer, and she barely bothers to struggle. He had no desire but to share her bed as they were, just laying here without having to face one another. He wondered what kind of expression was upon her face now, her face which so often was lovely even when utterly void of emotion. He wondered as her grief bled out towards him, as her anger dug into his flesh like knives.

_Why did you come back without him?_

_'I'm so sorry.'_

"I was not expecting that she would push so far, and so quickly. If her armies had not been crossing over the mountains, I would have been able to find him in time and drag him back. Now," he sighs quietly, exhaustion pulling at his consciousness, "I know not where he is now. I'm sorry."

No matter how many times he says it, he knows that it will never be enough.

"Don't blame me because you can't even bring your own men to fight upon _my _own territory without losing."

_'And I wasn't blaming you_.' But he won't say that aloud, and if there is anyone to blame he knows who it is.

"As if I don't know that you suffer, as if I don't feel the same pain from losing such a vast part of the empire."

"_But he was __**mine**__."_

And he was. The child, gently approaching manhood, had always been hers. Always. He had lived because of her, a child trapped between the ambitions of the elder two. He had lived without her love but with her protection, as she had shielded him when Aryan wanted to eliminate him.

_Always_.

Always, and never, and now he was gone. He was gone and what could Amar do about it? What could he do to fill the void that now entered her life, as hateful and unloving as it was?

They are quiet for a while, and the only sounds he can hear is his own breathing and painful heartbeat. His breathing has a slight hitch to it, and he wonders how long it will take for that to go away too.

"_Sayara,_" he whispers quietly, the words half mumbled into her hair, "Let me tell you a story."

"I don't want to listen to you."

"That's ok." And it is. "Just let me hold you, and let me speak."

She doesn't answer, and it is the closest thing to consent that she will give.

_'Thank you.'_

He breathes into her hair once more, breathing in her scent before turning his face away. It is beautiful and heartbreaking, just like her, and he knows that he is hopelessly in love with her and that she doesn't care. He knows this, as he has known this for so long. It's just little things like that that reminded him of it over and over again.

"Once, there was a family." And there was, so very long ago. Long before big sister settled her nomads upon the land, settling them into villages that would someday be cities. Long before eldest sister's eyes sparkled with delight, when her kings raised pyramids up that would pierce the sky and heavens alike. Long before any empire existed…

There was only them.

"There were two sisters and a little brother." With no mother or father to claim them, and with no people to call their own.

"And they were happy together." Because they were. So very happy together, in a time before cities existed, before empires were even dreams in the hearts of man.

_Before they had a reason to hate them…_

"They were so happy together. They laughed and they played and they lived together through countless days and nights without end." He could remember the eldest cupping his cheeks, delight glimmering in her eyes as she sang her pretty songs to him. He remembered being hoisted upon the other's shoulders, the middle child having grown faster than the rest, dwarfing the younger and elder sibling alike. The three of them, laughing together as they spoke in baby tongues that held no meaning except between each other.

Before words like _'brother' or 'sister' _even existed.

"The land was fertile, and the land held plenty. There was peace from horizon to horizon, embracing the land like a loving mother." Not that the lands were lush, oh no. The wastelands he grew up in were nothing like the lands in which now he resided: in India, the land was rich, full and beautiful with life. As beautiful as herself.

Still, while her land could not be matched, he had always found himself nostalgic for his home. There had always been enough for them, as long as they wasted not. They had never been forced to go without, and it had always felt safe. As a child, there had been no safer place than near the loving arms of his sisters.

But that had been then.

"And the first two were so old, even if their forms were that of children." And that was true. All of his childhood they had looked the same, perpetually a few years older than himself as he grew into adolescence. How old they were he had never truly known, just understanding that their world had aged several millennia before his birth.

"In a time before there was time, they had played across the land, crossing the deserts and steppes and the mountains that trailed across the land." For all he knew, the three weren't even truly related, siblings by chance more than by blood. Nonetheless, they had raised him, and had raised each other in the time before he was born. That always had been enough for him.

_Had…_

"And there was so much that thrived at the edge of their world, so many strange and wondrous sights that would take a thousand lifetimes to fully explore." And they had explored, when it had been only the two of them. They had traveled west towards a sea that seemed to extend into the ends of the earth. They had traveled east, and found another sea, this one dwarfing the other like a grain of sand in all of the world's deserts.

And north…

They had gone north.

"The land was happy and good, and what little tribes of mankind they found were small and peaceful, and war had only shown its ugly face to the lower beasts of the lands." And that was true too. What scraps of mankind that had started to form were no larger than simple families themselves, hardly larger than what a one could count upon their fingers.

_And they had gone north…_

"And they saw wonderful things, and when their little brother came into the world they played together, and they sang and danced and shared their stories as they did their hearts." And what beautiful stories they told. Of beasts and men, and of the world that had yet to feel the need to accommodate either. Their stories were always wonderful, and had brought delight into his child's heart.

"Together, they dreamed of a world far larger than themselves, a world that they would be a part of." And they had, and it had been wonderful.

And he remembered one of his favorite stories, the one that the two of them never quite were able to tell together. They had gone west and found no one, and had gone east and found little more. But when they went north...

There, they truly began to understand how small they were in the world.

"There found places where rain had never fallen upon the land, and tiny islands of flowers around a pool of the clearest water, surrounded by hundreds of miles of desert on every side. In the far north, they found lands that were always cold, where there was water that had been frozen into ice and fell from the sky."

_And in the north…_

"And one time, way before the brother was born, they found others like them." Which was almost the truth. It had been before he was born, but it hadn't been just one time. The sisters had had fun together, yet both of them had still been lonely, and when they had found others they couldn't bear to have been kept away.

"But they liked the homeland best, and wanted to stay there." And it hadn't of just been a group, Naqada had been quick to point out. The two and later the three of them may have grown up without the guardianship of others, but they knew what parents were they saw them.

"There was more rain in the land, back then. It wasn't barren like it is now." That two had been adults, or at least close to that, that had been sure. For the other ones, they were hardly larger than the sisters themselves. Children, just as they had been. How many were boys and girls they couldn't tell, but only one of them had stood out to them.

"One day, the rains started to come later and later in the year, once gracing the earth with its life-bearing kiss as soon as the first moon of spring." Overtime, it wouldn't come until summer, and less and less with each passing year. And he had been born then, or however it was that different nations were brought into the world. The land had already began to shift, and so had the humans that were settled upon it.

"And man stopped living so scattered apart, like blossoms lost in the wind. They started to congregate together, and the beginnings of villages that would one day be cities began to spread like a fragrant wind across the world." _Or like a disease_, as Naqada had thought.

"And because the world was changing, they knew they would have to change." And they did. Peaceful happiness was no longer enough when one had to fear the there might be others like them, growing at the edges of their lands. It was more important to grow strong alone than to find peace together.

And it certainly did neither sister any good, to have to care for a child as their empires were being born from the land.

"But the sisters did not hate each other, even if they could not live with each other." They hadn't. Amar had still been a child at that time, but they were already well on their way to being fully grown. They had talked and they had talked when they believed their little brother had been asleep at rest.

And they had made their decision, without him.

"One day one went away, the oldest one. She went away to the west, to where the great river of the desert emptied out into the sea." Naqada had decided it would be better that she leave, being the eldest and best able to adapt to a new land. A part of their agreement had been, the agreement that had favored Elaheh far more than the other, had one small stipulation, almost insignificant at the time.

Elaheh would have to keep him. She would have to protect their younger brother.

"Thus, the family was divided." And like a table with a leg removed it could not stand for long.

He had been too young, too small to handle a realignment of such magnitude. At first it had been fine, Elaheh's loss of her sister who had been so dear to her enough to bridge the impatience she held for the child whom she began to see as the catalyst for such unwelcome change. But as the years went by, and her empire grew, impatience grew to disdain, and disdain into hate, and in the years before his flight into the east it had almost been like a living hell.

"And along with that, the world was no longer what it once was, and would never be again." The first time he had left it had almost been a whim, just a half-formed thought that led him out of his sister's compound and across the lowlands and mountains that divided the world that he knew.

"But just because it was different, it didn't mean that the world was no longer a good place." And after he had crossed the treacherous mountains, which had almost been the death of him, he had come into a world that he could scarcely have imagined. He had heard stories about such lands, but having come from the wastelands he had never seen anything as beautiful and wonderful [_and__ so full of life!_] as this place. It was like every dream he had harbored quietly in his heart, every wish that he thought he could never have…

_And he found her._

"Cities began to bloom, and man had wanted to learn about the others who lived in ways different from himself." He had wanted to stay there forever, but he feared that his sister might come after him, since in that age she still held her promise to her sister despite her own feelings [or lack of them] for her brother. He had gone back, harboring the hope that someday he could return.

"People reached out to each other, but too often it was in war than in peace." Tribes had grown into kingdoms, each one battling for the blessing of the nation that controlled the lands. They may have all been her people, but Elaheh had only kept the strongest, allowing the weaker ones to sort themselves out with a sword and their blood.

_And what had been important about the children that his sister had seen? What was special about one of them that made Elaheh's lips purse together in a way he had found unsettling, even as a child?_

"Still, empires grew, baptized in blood, and from the chaos there began to be order in the world, civilization instead of just life." And he knew the woman in his arms hated him, hated him for ruining the society she herself had been creating in her lands. However, he had brought the best thoughts of his sister's empires along with him when he left Elaheh's kingdom for the last time. He had wanted to build something here, something magnificent that the world had not yet seen. They were to build it together, in love as in peace, even if she felt neither towards him yet.

In time, perhaps, she would.

His arms drew tighter around her. She wondered where the child was sleeping on this night.

"And through civilization there could be peace, and as empires grew great there would one day less of a need for war." Once the world was controlled by one empire, regardless of how many nations were apart of it, there would no longer be a need for war.

His dream was to create that empire, with her by his side.

_Forever._

He is quiet for a while, almost surprised at himself for speaking so much but to tired to care. His bones still ache, and the anguish of his men [_her men_]biting at his mind like wasps angered from their hive. He was slipping towards sleep, and his arms loosen unconsciously. He is almost fully gone when he feels her shift next to him. She doesn't so much push him away as she slides away from him, putting an arm's length of distance between the two of them with little effort. He reaches an arm out to her, trying to hold onto her shoulder but she shrugs it off.

"Please, let's just sleep now-"

"I don't want to sleep with _you_." His words came out half slurred, but hers were sharp and cold: she was no where near sleep.

He sighs, tired of fighting with her and just wanting to rest. "Fine, it's fine. Let's just sleep now-"

_"Get out."_

He wasn't expecting her foot to ram into his stomach, her leg extending back behind her without her having to turn around. At his peak, she would have hardly been able to have moved him; in his weakened state, his fingers could not even hold onto the sheets hard enough to keep him on the bed. The crack of his head colliding with the floor almost startles him more than the impact itself, his mind not quite registering the pain as of yet.

"_Get __out_."

"What are you, why-"

"_Get out__!_" She's hissing at him from clenched teeth, facing him with her hands supporting herself upon the bed. He can see her knuckles are white against the flesh of her skin, her hands balled into fists as her nail dug into the sheets. "_Get.__ Out_."

"You don't tell me what to do, Sayara, you don't-"

_**"GET OUT!"**_ Something strikes him across the shoulder, and it takes him a few seconds to realize she has thrown her bangle at him. It was made out of pure gold, formed into the shape of a serpent, heavily laden with jewels. It had been his present to her, almost 200 years ago.

His thoughts are interrupted as he is struck again, this time an earring. It scrapes across his left cheek, blood immediately welling under his eye. "Stop it, just-"

_"Don't ever touch me again!" _The next object is a candle, mercifully unlit but still painful to be hit with. She doesn't give him a chance to respond, bombarding him with objects from the bed stand as she continued to shriek. _"Get out!"_

He's on his feet with his back against the doorframe his already battered form covered with new bruises from her assault. He takes a moment to wipe the blood off of his face, a mistake when he feels a stone candle holder collide with his head. He barely keeps his balance, halfway out of the room when he takes one last look at her. Her face, which he had always loved, was twisted in hatred, her rage mixed so far with her grief that the two were one and the same.

"_Don't ever touch me again, not until you bring him back. Get out of my palace, get out of my city. Don't ever come back until you find him!" _This last outburst comes out as a screech, and he ducks out of the room as he hears more debris raining against the walls. His chest is heaving as he distances himself away from her, moving towards the far side of the palace as he can still hear her screaming.

**_"Don't come back until you find him!"_**

Her shrieking echoes throughout the corridor, following him no matter how far he went. It takes him less than half an hour to decide to give up all together, finishing the night in the stables just so he wouldn't have to hear her anymore. Still, even as he sleeps he can still see her face, and knowing that as long as the child was gone he would never find a moment of peace with her again.

* * *

The next day, he sets out with a battalion of men towards the south. The invasion of the southern island had long been delayed, and he finally had the incentive to stay far away from his kingdom's core.

He would spend the next 200 hundred years away from her. Even then, he never got far enough away to be free from her hate.

_Or her grief._

* * *

_Near the junction of the Indus and Sutlej Rivers, 327 BC_

He was grateful that it is was still the summer months. The heat was less than comfortable as they neared the shores of the rivers, especially the mighty Indus, but he could hardly complain. He and his patrol had only returned from the mountains less than a week ago, the exhausting process of navigating along the different valleys and corridors near unbearable even in the best of conditions. In the winter, he would not even have tried, not needing to damn himself and his men to suicide just for some wayward brat.

Still, he was out here, as he had been every year for the past two centuries.

His men were at camp, clustered around their fire as they rested their weary forms, grateful to be done with another fruitless search. For some of the men, it was more than their tenth voyage into the Hindu Kush, the veterans knowing the treacherous trail almost better than they knew their own homes. For himself, he knew the mountains as if they had been imprinted into his mind, the harsh terrain more his home now than the lush landscape of the south.

Sometimes he wondered if he was ever going to be able to go back.

_To her_.

Not until he found the child, wherever the hell the brat may be. For all he knew, the child was dead, or had gone to some far off land like he did in his youth, perhaps already a man somewhere. _Somewhere. _However, 'somewhere' wasn't good enough for Sayara, and unless he wanted her to try and claw his eyes out, he knew better than to return to her without the child.

It wasn't like it had been _his _fault, the child having run off from [_her_] home; in fact, the boy had run away from the palace several times before, ever since he began to emerge into adolescence. Still, the only, and _main_, difference was, all those times he had been able to bring him back, dragging the screeching form back into the palace, once again to hide in her bed whenever he was distressed.

Whatever the reason, she would not have him back until he brought the child back with him, and that is why he was still searching the mountains, looking for the brat wherever he had run off to. All he knew was that the child favored the northwestern part of her lands to anywhere else, which is why his searches had centered here all of this time.

All 200 hundred fruitless, draining years.

If it wasn't for her, he would just strangle the child when he found him.

His mount is weary, as is he, but he urges it onward, leaving his men at camp as he set off by himself. He wasn't so much continuing his search (as they had finished for the year), but needed some time to himself, some time just to find some peace so he could re-center his core.

Anything, anything just to keep him going. He was feeling weaker and weaker with each year that passed. The campaign into the south had not gone as well as planned, and through the years that spanned it's beginning he had barely been able to hold onto whatever land he had claimed. He had only caught glimpses of the one who lived there, the boy hardly a nation but deceptively clever. The guerrilla warfare raged against his troops had made a bloodbath of the island, a bloodbath where he was hardly to be declared the victor. He wished the island would just burn or sink into the sea rather than try to claim it again.

Another reason why the mountains were becoming his home.

Still, once this task was completed, he would finally be able to focus the whole of his troops on re-stabilizing the land, bringing the rogue land chiefs under his rule in order to promote unity in the land. It would be a long and painful process, but it would cement his authority, and avoid the bloodshed of factioning.

One day she would understand what he was trying to do.

The steady cantor of his mount is comforting to him, the hoof beats almost a song to his tired ears. He was barely paying attention to where he was going, trusting the horse who had carried him for almost a decade across these lands. The mountains loomed above the horizon in the distance, the main range over a day's journey away with a few lesser ones only a few hours off. He had left his men with orders to rest, his trusted soldiers rewarded with a few days to relax at camp before they moved farther south again. They wouldn't take mind if he was gone for a couple hours. It wasn't like he was planning on going too far…

He had left camp when it was still only mid-morning; he doesn't reclaim the full capacity of his senses until it was already 5 hours past midday. He's disoriented for a moment, and in the next one berating himself for letting himself become lax. He must have been dozing on and off, letting his horse lead him as he strayed between consciousness and sleep. Even if he was exhausted it was no way for an empire to be behaving, as if he was just some novice infantrymen fresh out of childhood.

_Why did it feel like he couldn't control his body like he once did anymore?_

_'Could he still control his kin-' _H_e_ banishes the thought before it is finished.

They're already at the base of one of the nearer mountains, the small peak looming over him. He was almost completely shrouded in shadow, the sudden lack of warmth probably being the main cause of his reawakening. He's still aggravated with himself, but it isn't that much of a problem: he enjoyed the mountains, and at least he would be able to watch whatever was left of the sunset when he climbed higher upon the mount.

He urges his horse onward, but the stallion begins to balk. He tries a few more times, but eventually he can see that the horse will not continue on. It was odd, especially since his stead had guided him along the narrow footpaths of the Kush before. Nonetheless, he dismounts, dropping the reins before running his hand through the horses' mane. He's not afraid that it will bolt, and leaves it to graze as he continues on. It will only take a quarter of an hour to reach his destination.

The wind picks up as he makes his ascent, and while it chills him it is not that undesirable. It serves to soothe his weary flesh, the cold always better able to alleviate his pain than did warmth. There was only one warmth that could make him feel better, but it was best not to linger on that.

_'Perhaps next year...'_

_Perhaps…_

It doesn't take long to reach the right height on the mountain to watch the sunset. It wasn't much, with only the last few minutes left of it, but it was still a reward, no matter how small. He sits back to watch, the hard earth serving as a decent enough seat for him. The wind blows some errant strands of his hair across his face, and he brushes them back, pushing his light brown hair back into place.

It's a small gesture, yet it sparks a small connection with the past, an _infinitesimal _recollections with something he had thought before. It was something he hadn't thought about in a long time, something that was just a stray memory like so many things were his past had become.

The hair, the light brown hair which was barely more than a dark blond itself. A long time ago it had been lighter, the color of straw that had only darkened in the sun.

There had been a girl, at least _one_ girl in the group of children that they had seen. The only reason why they had known for sure, was that-

_Only one looked like the father._

It's an interesting thought, a tangent of one of the few happy memories he had as a child They didn't matter though, not now. Once he was able to re-solidify his empire, he could just focus on creating happy new memories. Happy new memories, with himself and the woman he loved. That was all that would matter.

He lets out a heavy breath and leans back, letting his tired eyes close in order to get some rest. It would be better to go back to his horse to retrieve a blanket, but he will be moving on in a few minutes, and it wouldn't hurt to rest just a bit. He's already slept on the ride here, so he's not quite ready to sleep. Just a few moments more, sitting here, resting…

His eyes open half a second later when he feels cold steel against his throat.

He stiffens but does not jerk, knowing full well that such a movement could inadvertently complete his attacker's task by slitting his own throat for them. He remains still, and it presses a little harder, a quiet assertion of the other's control. His sword is still with his mount, and there is nothing he can use to defend himself; he just waits, seeing what the other will do since they had already had a chance to finish him off if that had been their wish.

A moment goes by, and then another.

Only the wind can be heard, brushing the sand across the rock as it lost its comforting charm; that and the painful beating of his heart in his ears. There's silence, and then he hears a low laugh, barely more than a chuckle. It's quiet, and the pitch is low, but he had listened to it for thousands of years and he feels his heart stop.

The blade moves away from his neck, little more than an inch. He knows it is a nonverbal sign for him to turn around, but he takes his time in doing so. He already knows what [_who] _he is going to see, and as his head slowly turns he prays that he will be spared this sight.

He is not.

She's taller than before, taller even than himself, but she had always been that way, There are lines around her eyes, but whether they are more from age or weariness he can not tell. It doesn't matter though, since there is a shine in her eyes that seems to illuminate her whole face, making her seem far younger than she is. She's smiling, and there's a twisted mix of joy and hate that makes him cringe as it had all those years ago. She says only one word.

"_Bhrātr_."

* * *

**Historical Notes: **Around 520 BC, much of the northwestern lands of India along the Hindu Kush and the Indus river (modern day Afghanistan and Pakistan) fell under Persian control. This was quite a blow, since the relatively harsh mountains of the Hindu Kush were the main barrier of India from the west, where the majority of the warring empires laid. This marks a downturn in the history of Aryan India, which would begin to accelerate in the coming centuries. Campaigns into the far south, especially into the massive island off the southeastern coast (modern day Sri Lanka) did not go well for the ruling empire. Progress had been bloody at best, and was mainly nonexistent, fluctuating on a yearly basis.

Also, the latter part coincides with the Greco-Persian invasion of the Indian subcontinent, led by Alexander the Great and his Macedonian and Persian army.

**Author's Notes: **Part two of the campaign into South Asia. Little Rajveer (modern Pakistan) finally succeeding in growing up enough to flee into the mountains, into 'his' own land. Cue a very unhappy India, who becomes even more set in her task of making Aryan's life into a living hell. Now that a weakened Aryan has been 'reunited' with his 'beloved' older sister, I'm sure only good things can happen.

**Next up: **To reward you for your patience, part three…will not be shown just yet. XP ¿Nunca? Maybe. Instead, we take a break and venture a little farther east, just a bit you know.

Chapter 15: Trying is not always enough. Pusan, 400 AD


	15. Uisim

**Everlasting Night**

**Title: **Prelude to Conflict  
**Chapter 15: **Uisim  
**Characters: **China, Japan, and the Koreas.  
**Rating: **PG-13  
**Summary: **All that matters is you tried-isn't it?

_Pusan 400 AD_

'_It is beautiful today.'_

A light gust of wind blows some stray strands of hair across his face, bringing a slight smile to tug at the edge of his lips. Perhaps not the most perfect of days, with the breeze coming off the coast bringing a slight chill on top of dampening the air, but still nice. Lovely in its own way, like each day was supposed to be. Small hands were cupped within his own as they stood in one of the gardens that lay near the entrance to the bay, with a clear view of the boats unloading in the harbor.

Their 'guest', or perhaps more correctly, '_Yao's guest' _was to be arriving shortly, since his envoy had come ashore almost an hour ago. Once he arrived, they would finally be able to commence with the duties at hand. Yao takes another moment to breathe in the sea air before he could feel a light tug on his sleeve. Knowing full well the cause behind this call for attention, he sighs before looking down, meeting the stony gaze of the impatient young boy besides him with his naturally serene eyes.

"Yes?" He's smiling as he looks down towards the young Korean boy. "What is it?"

"I want to go home." This had been the boy's semi-constant mantra since they had left the southern residence in the main palace that the two children shared together. It was understandable, considering the circumstances, but he was really hoping for a little better from the boy. He was the elder, after all.

"Jae Bok, you know better. We'll go home when we're finished." His words are quiet and reasonable, but the little brows below him draw together.

"But I want to go home _now._"

Yao just shakes his head, keeping his smile on his face and his irritation in check. "Please, you know better." There is a mild rebuke in his eyes, but he doesn't try and scold the boy yet. "He will be here soon."

A thin sound - one which sounded very much like a whine - begins in the boy's throat, and Yao tightens his grip around the child's hand. Even the girl was starting to fidget, looking up at her brother with something border lining concern. It wasn't a big surprise, with Jae Bok acting up like this, that she would start to get nervous too.

This was something he had been trying to avoid, ever since he had first set up this meeting with the four of them. He didn't need them riled up before the other even arrived.

"You two, _please _be patient. He will be here soon, and after you meet him you can play or something, and after that we can all go home. Is that asking so much of you, just a few hours of your time?" Jae Bok's face turns an indignant red and he looks away from Yao, a light scowl upon his lips as he mouthed childish curses at the ground.

The girl just looked abashed, even though she hadn't done anything wrong in the first place. She presses her forehead against the back of Yao's hand and begins to sway a bit. It's an old comfort thing for her, and he moves his arm around her so he can press her closer against his leg, leaning over a bit so she is in a half-hug. She continues for a little bit longer before she stops, and though he cannot see her face he knows she is softly smiling against the silk cloth.

He can't help but feel the smile upon his face grow.

Aside from these petty frustrations, it was very refreshing being with these two. They were still too young to expect any real sort of companionship from them, not like what he had gotten from one he had met before. However, this situation was different, and looking after these young ones here wasn't any kind of burden at all.

Not one that he minded, at least.

They were younger than him, _far younger _than himself, though not infants. Their bodies were those of children, though how long they had looked like children he could not be sure of; nonetheless, in the centuries that he had begun to care for them, they had already began to grow, the boy's head reaching his stomach as the girl's reached just below his hip.

The boy was slightly older than his sister, though his growth had done little to accelerate his emotional maturation. Somewhat reclusive and selfish, it was hard to get him to do anything he hadn't already decided upon doing. His sister, on the other hand, was almost the complete opposite, quiet and shy and so self-effacing.

He supposed the boy's more than _slightly _bratty behavior was on no small part due to his over protectiveness for his younger sister, Ryung Sun. Small and pretty like the hibiscus that grew on their lands or a spring cherry blossom, she was almost always in arm's reach of her brother, who would huff and puff if anyone but Yao came near her, and that had only been since a few centuries ago.

Long after he had first crossed into the peninsula, he had found the two of them. He had made the mistake of approaching her with intent to speak with her, unaware of the breech of 'protocol' that had been and had enjoyed the pleasure of being bitten by her brother.

_Hard_.

The next time he had been more discreet.

Still, aside from those few unpleasantries things were mostly enjoyable. When not feeling threatened, Jae Bok was a fairly good-natured boy, and Ryung Sun was always a sweetheart. He helped them with their budding kingdoms, being sure to interfere when he had to but trying to let their people govern themselves in peace.

As the much older and stronger nation, he had taken the role of their caretaker upon himself, and had an agreement with their kings to take care of the children. The peninsula was still in flux, with the power fluctuating between the rival kingdoms, and it was important to make sure that the children remained safe throughout all of it. Despite what some of his emperors may think, he felt better knowing that he had good ties with his neighbors rather than try and conquer them. Fighting really wasn't in his spirit.

Besides, he would never let something happen to them. There were as much a part of his family as his younger brothers were, and he would do anything to keep them all safe.

A heavier tug on his sleeve pulls him out of his thoughts, and he looks down to see that Jae Bok is continuing to fume. The boy had been opposed to this meeting since Yao had first brought it up, and while the sentiment had not been shared by the girl, it had certainly added a dimension of difficulty to the situation. The last thing he needed was the boy pulling a fit or Ryung Sun bursting into tears when their fourth member finally arrived.

It would completely ruin what he was trying to create from this.

"Jae Bok?"

"I want to go play _now_." Another sigh escapes from his lips, and he can feel a headache starting to build at his temples. "Please just wait, I'm sure his delegation is only running a little late." This is apparently not the answer the boy was looking for, and he begins to swing his arm with a little more force than necessary, pulling Yao's own arm along with him. Yao is already partially bent over because of how his arm is around Ryung Sun, and this swinging isn't good for his balance. "Stop it, Jae Bok." Yao warned lightly, but the swinging just gets stronger.

"Brother, please stop it." Ryung Sun pleads in a quiet voice, her face half buried against Yao's leg. Jae Bok looks over at her for a long time before looking away, but he still lets go of Yao's hand, letting it fall to the elder's side. It's good that he stopped, but it doesn't make Yao feel much better.

"Fine." The boy walks a bit down the walkway from them before hunching down on his knees, his attention newly diverted to brutally uprooting some of the tall grasses that grew along the walk. "Don't get your hanbok dirty." Yao calls out, but the boy only intensifies his attack.

There's a movement by his side, and in his mind Yao could see Ryung Sun's lower lip begin to quiver, and she presses her face harder against his leg, her small body swaying fiercely in agitation. Knowing she was already near tears, his now freed hand gently pats her on the head, and he guides her over to a bench near where Jae Bok was still intent on his task of terrorizing the greenery.

It truly did seem like the other was going to be running late, and Yao knew that with each passing minute the boy's patience would further deteriorate, and Yao's plans would soon be scrapped for the rest of the day. He half considered taking the children down to the docks in order to see just what was going on, but Ryung Sun was more than a little afraid of the dockyard and anything that agitated her would just serve to make Jae Bok even more surly.

Besides, their guest had just come from a long journey, and giving the boy and the children some time to settle themselves before meeting each other would remove some of the tension. Plus, meeting in the gardens, a place where the young siblings had played quite often, was to help put the children's minds at ease, since this would be familiar territory. All of this was a part of his plan in to make this meeting as rewarding as possible, for the children and his guest more than himself.

He was starting to wonder if this all had been a mistake.

"Hyoung-neem." It's a quiet whisper, and the light tug on his sleeve doesn't obtain his notice until her pulling becomes more insistent. "_Hyoung-neem_."

"Dong-saeng?" He looks at her face, and there's a new sort of concern in it, one different than the one for her brother. She stops tugging at his sleeve, but her eyes dart towards down the walkway. It takes him a second to realize that he can't hear Jae Bok anymore, neither his muttered curses nor the tearing sound from the uprooted grass. He looks up, and sees what both of the children are staring at.

Or, more accurately, '_whom'_.

The boy is by himself, with a few of whom were undoubtedly his envoy standing out by the garden's entrance. He looks completely out of place, so far away from his island home. The heavy silken robes that he wore were weighing down his small frame, and he looked almost lost inside of them. He's looking out towards them, his dark eyes moving from the other children towards Yao, a hesitant, nervous look in his eyes that signaled his unease. Ryung Sun clings onto Yao's sleeve again, and he can feel that she is fighting the urge to bury her face into the silk. Jae Bok, on the other hand though, Jae Bok…

The boy was standing now, some stray strands of grass still clutched forgotten in his hands, his small fingers balled into grass-stained fists. He is staring at the other boy, and Kiku keeps trying not to look at him, his eyes focused on the only one he knew there. However, Yao was sure that Kiku could feel the weight of the other boy's gaze upon him, even if he couldn't quite see the distrust gleaming darkly in them. It was time to act.

"Kiku," Yao calls out to the other boy, standing up as he pulls Ryung Sun beside him. He can still feel that she is nervous, but as long as he holds onto her hand he knows that she will try and keep calm. Jae Bok was still glaring at the Japanese boy, and he takes a few steps backwards towards Yao, keeping his scowl firm without trying to seem like he's retreating towards the elder. Kiku takes a few steps towards them, though hesitates and stops; he's still a distance away from them, if he was still unwilling to come closer.

Yao purposefully makes his smile wider, and pulls Ryung Sun along with him as he steps towards the nervous boy. "Nǐ hǎo, Kiku, welcome!" He has to shorten his steps as he feels the girl stumble a bit, and extends his free arm out towards the other. Kiku takes a few tentative steps forward, but his eyes dart back towards Jae Bok and he comes no nearer. There's a hostility emanating off of him, and even though Yao knows that is only because he is nervous for himself and his sister that he is acting that way, _Kiku _doesn't know that.

The boy takes one more step before the Korean boy sneers at him. "_Jeoligayo_."

Yao's eyes widen for less than half a second before narrowing as they darted towards the boy. "Jae Bok!" He hisses at the boy, but the little one only glares at Kiku for a moment longer before turning back towards his guardian, a look of open defiance in his face. There's a rapid-fire exchange between the two, and while the Japanese boy doesn't know what they're saying, he just knows that is somehow about him. He feels himself withdrawing even more into the shell of his outer robe, the silk feeling cold instead of comforting against his pale neck.

He had first met Yao several years ago, the man a stranger in his land where strangers did not come. After some time, the shy young boy had come to understand that the other was, surprisingly, very kind and caring. He had told Kiku about others of their kind, others like himself that lived in places near and far from him. Kiku, having never of left his quiet, island home, had been worried about meeting anyone else, wondering if those 'others' that Yao had told him about would be as friendly as he was to him.

_Or if they would be as kind._

Still, he had agreed to this meeting, only willing to meet these two that Yao had spoken so highly of because they were supposed to be no older than himself. He supposed meeting other children would be less daunting than meeting another adult such as Yao, and, though Yao had not stated it outright it would be better to learn about his neighbors now, under peaceful conditions, than to find them later in war. He had just hoped that he could get through the day without being afraid.

His hopes began to sink in his chest as the voices around him continued to rise.

Ryung Sun's cringing beside Yao as her brother's protests become more insistent. Yao knows that she's about a minute away from crying, and he supposes he can't blame her. The boy's complaints earlier had been slightly irritating but not much on their own; now, he was becoming openly hostile, and Yao's glad that Kiku doesn't understand what he's saying.

_'Just stop it, brother.'_

'I want him to go! Geuneun isanghae!'

'Just stop. Geuman.'

'Make him go now! I don't trust him, he's bad, and I hate his face. I hate him!''

"_**Enough**." _Yao hisses at the boy, his patience wearing thin. He lets go of Ryung Sun's hand as he grips the back of Jae Bok's collar, pulling the boy aside roughly, trying to break the two boy's lines of sight. He force marches him far enough away to be just out of earshot to the others, not wanting Ryung Sun to have to hear this. "I don't really care if you like him or not, you will not embarrass your people or myself by acting like this."

"Also," He has to yank on the boy's collar again as the boy tries to squirm free, bringing their faces only inches apart, "you will not embarrass _your sister_ in such a manner, so you had better think if this is really how you want to begin you and your sister's relationship with this boy and you'd better think fast. Got It?"

Jae Bok tries to look away, but Yao doesn't give him any space. "_Got it_?"

Away from them, Ryung Sun's fingers were twisting around her sash in nervous agitation, her eyes fixed upon the ground. She's alone with this boy now, and even though her brother is nearby, he feels so far away. Sometimes her eyes stray a little bit upwards, but she's afraid of having to meet the other's face because she doesn't know who he is, and she wishes Hyoung-neem wouldn't have let go of her hand. She wishes that he had never brought them down here to meet this boy if he and brother were just going to fight, and she just wants to go home too but she can't say that because she'd disappoint Hyoung-neem more than he already was.

All she can think to do is to keep fingering the bow of her sash, her head held down as she wished to be anywhere but here.

Kiku's thoughts follow around the same wavelength, though the meanings behind them are different.

Yao and the boy he had come to meet here are fighting, and he knows it's because of him. It's embarrassing and upsetting, not just because he was so nervous just coming here but because he had really wanted to try and make this work. His oversized sleeves hide his hands, which keep clenching with a weak sort of helplessness as he hears Yao's voice become even louder with frustration, and the other's rising with anger.

He had tried so hard not to be nervous, and it wasn't fair that things had gone wrong before they even had a chance to begin. It just wasn't fair.

Still, he's better than this, and he has to force his hands open, letting his sweat-slicked palms rub off against the inside of his sleeves. He looks up at the girl in front of him, and he can see that she looks just as distressed as himself. She's smaller than even he is, and the way her fingers peak out from her wide sleeves and tug at her sash prove that she's just as nervous. The top portion of what he assumed was her dress was a dark pink, and with the much lighter pink on the bottom portion she kind of looks like a flower, like a cherry blossom in spring.

She's really pretty.

He stands there for a few moments, debating with himself about what he should do before he comes to a decision. Taking another look over at Yao, he can still see him arguing with the boy, and with that he takes the first tentative steps towards her.

She's too busy nervously playing with the knot in her sash to notice him at first, but he's only a few feet away when she does finally look up. It's a big difference from where he had been standing before, and it throws off her guard to see him suddenly so close. Instead of stepping backwards, she freezes, and because she doesn't move back he comes a little closer.

"Please stop." She asks in a quiet voice, but he only knows a little bit of Yao's language and he doesn't understand what she's saying. The space between them shrinks, and her hands clutch at her sash. "Please stop it."

He can't understand what she's saying, but it sounds pretty, and he likes hearing her speak. It's much less harsh than how the boy speaks, and he extends a small hand out towards her. He thinks since she's nervous, it will be alright if he takes the first step in reaching out towards her. He wants to show her that he is ok.

_"Stop it."_ She's too scared to shout, and the words come out barely above a whisper.

He was already getting close, and when he reaches out towards her she only becomes even more frightened. Aside from her and her brother's kings and some their servants in the palace, no one has ever came near to her. Only Hyoung-neem and brother had ever even touched her, and some strange boy she didn't know was reaching out towards her and brother wasn't here to make him stop.

"_Please, just_…"

His hand is only a few inches away from her when he looks up, and he's shocked to see that she is crying. He's not used to contact himself, but it hurts to see her crying and he wants to make it better. His hand lands upon her shoulder, and she lets out a sob.

_"GET AWAY FROM HER!"_

He never notices the boy launching himself at him until he already hit the ground. The boy is barely taller than himself, but as Kiku is thin this boy was solidly built, and Kiku lands painfully on his shoulder, a cry of pain escaping from his lips. The boy's hands start to tear at the collar of his robes, one of his thinner inner ones ripping in the Korean boy's grip. A blow lands painfully across his cheek, and before he can even get his hands up to try and defend himself he finds the weight being lifted off of him.

Yao's back had been turned to Kiku and Ryung Sun when he had been reprimanding Jae Bok, but the smaller boy had been able to see around him to where the Japanese boy had been approaching his little sister. He knew she was nervous around strangers, and had only let Yao hold him in place by his collar until he had heard her start to cry; from there, he had twisted out of the elder's grasp, and attacked the bastard who had dared make his baby sister shed tears.

He rips part of the other's robe and manages to land a blow against the bastard's face before he finds himself being pulled off, an angry and frantic stream of Chinese words streaming from the elder's mouth. The boy is still struggling to attack the other when Yao finally drags him off of the battered Kiku, and a kick lands painfully against his shin as the boy struggles to get free. Yao lets out a thin hiss of pain before heaving the boy towards the side, looking up in time to see the Japanese envoy running towards their fallen nation.

Another blows lands, this time right above his knee, but he barely feels it. Each step that the delegation takes running towards them further shatters his hopes that something good could have come out of this. The boy is still thrashing, and with the uproar that had taken place because of her Ryung Sun begins to weep in earnest. It's not her fault, but her weeping just adds to the cacophony of sounds assaulting him, and her crying on top of Jae Bok's cursing and the Japanese envoy's shouting sends a violent throb of pain at his temples.

Throughout all of this, it is only just sinking in on what a failure all of this had become.

Two of the envoys are helping their nation back onto his feet as another tries to straighten his robes. Three apparently being enough to care for the poor child, the fourth one is busy screaming at Yao, directing his anger at the older nation and the younger one struggling in his arms. He first tries to apologize but gives up quickly, as his words are only met with indignant anger. Jae Bok doesn't make it any easier, as the boy's efforts to dig his nails into the other's flesh have yet to diminish. Ryung Sun is clutching at the back of his robes, shrinking behind him in a manner that Yao almost wishes he could imitate.

The minister keeps screaming at him, Jae Bok keeps struggling, and the girl is crying, but for a second all of those things seem to fade out. The Korean boy is now sinking his teeth into Yao's hand, but he hardly notices, his gaze focusing on the figure who was on his feet only with the aid of his men. The boy's outer robe was stained with dirt, and his inner one badly ripped around the neck: this does not catch his attention. A bruise is blossoming on his right cheek, the pale skin marred with dirt and an unnatural flush. There are some tear tracks down his face, partially wiped away with one of his oversized sleeves.

Still, this does not draw his gaze.

It's the firm set of the lips that he first notices, which seem odd at first glance. Kiku was a sweet but delicate boy, and he would have imagined he would have just dissolved into a flurry of tears, just as Ryung Sun was behind him, after the little brute that Jae Bok is attacked him.

But he is not.

The lips are firm, and when he looks up a little farther on the boy's face, he can see why that may be. He doesn't even seem to notice his men around him, the boy's gaze is so intense. Just Yao and Jae Bok are all that he sees, and as Ryung Sun continues to cry against his back he can feel the weight of this gaze which should have been that of a child but for this moment is not.

It's just hate.

Pure, rich, unfiltered hate that he finds directed at himself and the children, as pure as only children who have known so little hate in their lives can create.

Pure hate, born out of frustration and pain and just plain disappointment in a world that the younger boy had tried to become a part of, directed at Yao and the Koreas.

Finally, as if feeling his efforts were being ignored, Jae Bok's teeth sink in deeper, and Yao can feel them hit something hard that feels dangerously like bone. Once the bone was hit there is a fresh wave of pain running up his shoulder, and Yao winces, and tries to push his thumb into the side of the boy's mouth to get him to let go.

All of this finished in the span of a few seconds, but by the time Yao looks back at Kiku the look is gone from his eyes. The boy is crying now, with quiet, shame-filled tears that were a sharp contrast to the open weeping that was still coming from the girl. The lone minister was still not done with his sermon, and while he begins to finish his undoubtedly venom-filled monologue the other ones begin to lead their nation away.

There is no point in trying to follow them, and Yao resigns himself to turning his attention back towards the other children, a poor alternative to having to watch Kiku continue to cry. Ryung Sun now, with the majority of her seemingly endless supply of tears spent, has embraced Yao as one of her tiny hands snaked around towards her brother. The teeth around the meat of his palm pause in their assault for a moment before beginning to disengage, and finally let go all together.

Aside from some ragged breathing, they're alone the beauty of the day around them can do little to alleviate the emptiness Yao felt, a cold sort emptiness fill him as he held the young boy in his arms and the girl pressed against his back.

_It felt a little like dread._

* * *

**Historical & Author's Notes: **The Hibiscus syriacus is the national flower of South Korea, and Ryung Sun's hanbok mimics the color design. Both siblings control the Korean peninsula at this point, since while there are rival kingdoms. Formal relations between Japan and the Korean Peninsula began around the middle of the Kofun Period (roughly the end/beginning of the 3rd/4th century AD). Liberties are taken with the layout of Pusan and the relations.

This is just an early look on the relations between the 3 nations. It's is hard to pinpoint the year when relations first began, since much of the Japanese population is believed to have been descended from Koreans [in the far distant past]. Regardless of human interaction, the interaction of the 'nations' themselves would be different, since it would be on a much more personal level. Here, things just didn't turn out that ok. I'm sure things get better, right?…不对. And no Im Yong Soo. It shouldn't be that surprising, coming from me.

**Korea/The Koreas:** Seong Jae Bok and Seong Ryung Sun

And by the way, Korean is not my specialty. I'd say Spanish is (and to a lesser extent Mandarin and Arabic), but I've been informed before that I can't even speak English properly, and since that's my native tongue, I'm shit out of luck. [Oh well, back to cave drawings.]

**Nǐ hǎo:** Hello (informal)  
**Uisim:** Doubt  
**Hyoung-neem:** Older Brother  
**Dong-saeng: **Little Sister  
**Jeoligayo:** Go away.  
**Geuman:** Just stop.

**Up Next:** What makes the sea beautiful is that not that it divides lands, but unites them. Lisboa, 1490 AD


	16. Mar dos Sonhos

你们好! Até logo.

* * *

**Everlasting Night**

**Title: **Prelude to Conflict  
**Chapter 16: **Mar dos Sonhos  
**Characters: **Portugal and England  
**Rating: **PG  
**Summary: **Wherever the waves may take me, my heart will be content.

_Off the coast of Lisboa, 1480 AD_

The waves gently rock the ship beneath the two of them, both maintaining their balance easily as they leaned against the railing together. The wind has calmed down from the morning, and the heavy snap of the sails that could be heard below decks is gone. The silence is comforting.

It would be easy to talk now, though neither one feels much like speaking. It's not that they don't, since they do fairly regularly, whether it is with their ministers or just themselves. Still, those talks are usually limited to the shore, the hard earth of one of their kingdom's always beneath their feet.

Here, there were hundreds [if not thousands] of feet of the ocean's depths separating them from anything resembling the lands they were born on, the lands where they ruled. Somehow, and he thinks this with a half-hidden grin, it's not surprising that here he couldn't feel any more at ease.

He's sure she feels the same.

It's just the two of them at the prow of the ship, most of his men remaining either below decks or back at the stern. It's a sign of good faith on both of their parts, him keeping his men at a distance as hers remained on her ship. Besides, it was safer that way, doing their best to prevent _others _from misunderstanding the circumstances. He knew better than [_almost_] anyone else just who might find such a meeting as grounds for a preemptive attack.

He wouldn't do that to Novinha.

Instead, they were just standing there, each one knowing that one would have to break the comforting silence between them, yet both still trying to make it last. There just isn't enough silence in the world these days, not with all of Europe inching closer towards war again. That was another part of the reason why so many of them were turning towards the seas…

He glances over at her, quietly watching as she leans on the railing beside him. He's the taller one now, having grown more than two feet since the time when they had first met. He's grown, as has she. Her head only comes up to his eyes now, but it's more than just a height thing.

She actually _looks _older now, something the casual observer may not realize but as her friend something that has stood out the most in the years that have passed. She doesn't look like a young girl anymore, finally looking like something resembling her age. It was funny, in a sad sort of way, that though almost a thousand years his elder, she has only aged as much as himself.

Another reason to hate Reina.

That last train of thought dulls his smile a bit, but he tries not to think about it. They aren't here to think about _that_ woman, and they're not here to worry about politics. They are here to enjoy the water _and _each other's company, and it was probably time for him to break the silence between them.

He quietly takes a small breath, getting ready to speak. As if reading his mind, she beats him to it.

"One could almost stay out here forever, don't you agree?"

"Forever's a long time, Novinha. When I change kings so often a century, I start to doubt the resolve of mankind. Life just seems so much more temporary."

"Novinha?" She raises a brow at that, but there's still a small smile hinting on the edge of her lips. "I don't remember that being what you've called me before."

"I know." Arthur nods, looking back out towards the sea. "But that is your name. Isn't that what I am to call you, unless you want me to call you by your state title?" She makes a small face at this, and he smirks.

"I remember a time when you used to call me something else." Her gaze also turns back to the sea, a hint of nostalgia coloring her tone as her face becomes wistful. "You used to be so small, and so cute, and you were always just the sweetest little boy." England grimaces unconsciously, and her smile widens into a smirk. "I miss that little boy. Too bad he had to grow up to become such a brute."

"Am I a brute now, is that it?" He snorts, his pride needing to be defended. "I've always been a gentleman, especially to you."

"And I am not the world, Arthur," His brow furrows slightly, but she moves on. "Besides, the little darling of my memory always called me '_Lena_'. I guess '_Madalena' _was too long for him to remember, but I didn't mind. I wonder why that changed..."

"Because he's not a little boy anymore." It comes out harsher than he intended, and he laughs weakly to try and cover it up. "Besides, a name as personal as that is reserved for your broth_er_." He barely catches himself as the end of that sentence, careful to cut off the 's'. He can't say 'brothers' anymore, since that is no longer the case for her: she only has one now.

Poor Madalena.

It wasn't fair what happened to Justinian.

"I suppose I couldn't expect him to stay that young, could I? Growing up to favor _professionalism _in relationships is not the worse way he could turn out."

"You always say the nicest things in such oblique ways, don't you?"

"It's not like you ever need to doubt my intentions, do you Arthur?"

"No," he laughs, leaning against one of his elbows as he turned himself towards her. "Of all of the people in my life, you're the only one whose intentions I never doubt,"

"I would be flattered more if I was not being compared to the people whom you find the most unsavory."

"Or maybe there is just something about you."

'_And only you.'_

His gaze never moves away from her, but her eyes remain fixed upon the sea.

"You are still very young, Arthur. I have little doubt that there will be others whom you will enjoy sharing your life with." His smile falters for a moment, but it still remains, even if diminished. "I suppose with your age, you would be the authority on this between the two of us, wouldn't' you?"

She shrugs her shoulders, as if even if it were true it didn't really matter. "That doesn't change that it is beautiful out here today, does it?"

He nods, his shoulders lowering as he relaxes his stance a bit more. "I won't deny that what I see is beautiful."

"And there is so much of it." Her voice is a little quieter now, with a slight hint of reverence instead of the shyness he had once attributed to her. "I wonder how much of the world is made out of sea?"

"No one really knows, I guess." He feels a little deflated at the pointed shift in the conversation, but he supposes he should be grateful that she won't press the matter. "It was not too long ago that almost the entirety of the world centered on the Mediterranean. _That _used to be what people thought was immense, and now we know better."

"And we always come to know better, don't we? Whenever we think we know the answer to something, we always find out that we were wrong. Sometimes I wonder if we are ever going to find the truth, or if we are destined always to be on a journey through disappointment."

"That's a pretty forlorn way at looking at the world, my friend."

"That, coming from you, cuts me deeply." He snorts at that, and they're quiet for a little bit. It's nice being out here like this, without having to worry about who was behind their backs. Still, he likes her voice more than her silence. This time he is the one to break the calm.

"Why do you love the sea, Novinha?"

It's her time to be thrown off guard, but only for a moment. It is still a part of the original strain of the conversation, even if only a small element of it, and she takes her time with answering. _'Why do I love the sea?'_

_And not you?_

"What do you think of the sea, Arthur?" He doesn't answer for a moment, and she moves on. "Do you think of it as a way to get somewhere, or as somewhere to go?"

"I don't see the difference between the two."

"But there is a difference. When you traveled to Rome when you were small with France, was the path you took a road that only lead to the Vatican?"

"I'm still not-"

"Or was it," she looks over her shoulder at him, "not just two destinations separated by a path, but hundreds of destinations that you moved towards with each step you took?"

He's quiet, and mulls it over. "Do you mean, like two different planes? The difference between drawing a circle and molding a ball out of clay?"

She thinks for a moment before nodding her head. "That certainly is a different way of looking at it, but I understand what you are trying to say. One is certainly a more holistic approach."

"Yes, but I still don't understand what you mean."

Another lull comes between them, and she changes her tactic. "The sea isn't just a way for me to get from one place to another, Arthur. It is never the same from day to day, for the water is always shifting, always moving. You never really think of the wind that way, but they are very similar in that respect. For all we know, it may circle around the earth for all eternity, forever making its path along the rivers and seas into the oceans."

Her brow furrows for a moment, and she bites her lip gently. "And even then, if that is true, how long would it take to circle that path? A human lifetime? A thousand human lifetimes?"

"Or, maybe," Her brow furrows deeper, and he can see the thin skin of her lips threatening to break beneath her teeth, "one of our own? Perhaps there is no greater expression of the infinite than that, or how small we are in the greater scope of things."

Arthur's fingers shift their grip on the railing, tightening and then loosening, moving to another spot as if it would be better. He didn't fight his way to the top of the isles in order just to feel small again, yet, he cannot deny the truth in her words. Having lived most of his [relatively] short life as an island nation, and she with the ocean facing half of her land, gave the two of them a different perspective of what it meant to understand the seas. Those who were landlocked, or those who lands were already large in their own rights, they would never understand completely.

It was one of the things they could share together.

"I suppose this is somewhat selfish on my part," she continues, "but if I could remain on the sea more, then I would. When I go out to sea, on my monarch's orders, it is more like I get spend time to enjoy myself out in the ocean in between land visits, like a second home."

"Preferring the journey to the destination, I see." His face mimes a look of hurt as he tries not to laugh. "No wonder you always seem so unhappy whenever you come to visit me. I get in the way of your sea travel."

"Don't tease me, Arthur." Her response is a little more pointed than he would have expected, and he backs off a bit. After a few moments, she continues.

"I prefer it to land. Whether it's Francis', my sister's, or even your own, I find the sea more peaceful, more beautiful. I prefer it…" Here she pauses, and bites her lower lip again. He watches her as she quietly debates continuing with her thought. He can always assume what he thinks she may have said, but if she says it out loud then she can't take it back.

After a few moments, she comes to a decision.

"I prefer it to my home. To my own land."

Her eyes remained fixed upon the waves, but he's sure she doesn't see them. His hands grip the railing tighter, wanting to put his hand on her shoulder or pull her closer but knows that he can't. He wants to, but he can't because he knows deep down inside that they're friends, that she's his only friend, _and she doesn't want him to_. Instead, he settles for looking out to sea with her, and letting the silence fall back between them.

And what about him?

He could not deny that the sea was certainly an attractive alternative. Certainly, with the past 200 years being what they were, it would be nice to get away from all the conflict, from all of the anger and hate and bloodshed. At sea…well, you weren't anything out there. Whether man or nation, no one held dominion over the seas.

'_At least not yet.'_

"You would miss the land, though." It's hardly an argument, but he needed to sidetrack where his thoughts were leading.

She shrugs. "One always misses things."

"You'd miss your broth_er_." There, another opportunity for him to cut off the end of the last word. He wondered how many more he would get to have before he went back. He wondered how many did _she _have, each and every day, each one tiny little reminders of what no longer was, a thousand little deaths she got to experience each and every time she thought of him.

Maybe Justinian was lucky.

He only had to die once.

"I love Francis very much." It is a statement, more than anything else it is that. It isn't repudiation, since it being true wouldn't make any difference. Neither does the next part. "I love Reina as well."

He nods at this, and looks away. '_Of course she does_.'

"It's just the way they look at the sea isn't quite the same. It's not like how we do."

"And what exactly is that?" He pushes another smile on his lips, and tries to lighten the mood. "What makes us any different, beside the two of us being actually decent living creatures?"

"Tell me Arthur," She turns towards him, resting most of her slight weight against her right elbow as her fingers clasped together. "What makes me any different from them?"

His eyes move to meet hers, a joke prepared in his throat when he stops. She's finally looking at him now, _really _looking at him, and the set of her jaw is tense, her normally warm eyes dull. Perhaps another day he can speak what he had planned to say, but today is not that day. Family is still sacred to her. Too sacred. He changes his plan of action.

"Well," He looks away, puffing his chest out in false indignation, "I'm not required to explain something that is so _glaringly _obvious. If you don't know by now, I suppose there is no point in trying to tell you."

Her eyes move backs towards the sea and she is better at hiding what may have been a grin. "I suppose. I will never understand your strange English ways."

"I wish you would keep trying."

Her smirk softens at the edges. "I suppose you would." One of her hands moves away from the rail, and his eyes trace the path it takes as her fingers tug at the cloth near her neck. They toy with the clasp that fastened her high collar closed before reaching inside, pulling out a thin silver chain that hung around her neck. His eyes linger for a moment longer at the thin expanse of her neck that is exposed by this action before moving along,

There's a cross at the end of the chain, but it's not like the crucifix that everlastingly adorns her sister's virtuous breast, nor like the one that Francis wore on the hilt of his sword. The design was slightly different, slightly thicker than the ones he normally saw. Her words quiet are pointed and quiet. "My brother gave this to me, Arthur."

He looks at it a moment longer before raising his eyes up towards her own. "I see. Did France have it custom made for you?" He gestures towards it, quickly pulling his fingers back self-consciously. "It looks beautiful."

She pauses for a moment, and shakes her head in negation. "No. This wasn't from Francis." Her fingers run up its length before clasping around it, her delicate fingers closing around the metal with a desperate sort of anguish. "Little brother gave it to me, just before the Fourth Crusade."

'_Before Francis betrayed him_.' Her grip tightens around the cross, and the edges bite into the palm of her hand.

_Before we all did_.

_And we never had to lift a finger._

England remains silent at this, because he has nothing to add. What _could _he add at this point, her grief was too private.

"He told me." Her words falter before steadying, her eyes closed as she continued. "He told me it would make bad dreams go away." She remembered the eager look on his face when he gave it to her, the cross tiny in his broad palm. 'I made it myself' he had told her, and she could see the earnest pride in his eyes as he displayed his handiwork to her. She would never get to see his smile again, not the smile that was still free from the anguish of betrayal and pain.

The edges of her lips quirk up, but it's an involuntary movement. "Justinian was always tried to be thoughtful."

Her companion nods at this. Justinian may have been a brute at times, a far cry from the refined gentlemen that France had always fashioned himself into being, but he always knew that he had loved his sisters. He knew, even when he was younger, that while the man had loved Reina the most, for whatever reasons that Eastern Empire had, he had loved Novinha as well.

And she had loved him dearly.

She had loved him so much, and now he was gone. Dead.

_Murdered._

Francis may have been the first to put a knife in his brother's back, but the one who had finished him off…

"And did they go away?" His words are barely above a whisper, and he hates himself the moment they were out.

She smiles at this, and the curvature of her lips is at odds with the silent tears that begin to stream down her face. "No Arthur, they didn't. They never really go away." She turns to him, not bothering to wipe away her tears because she knows they will just keep coming. "They just find new ways to come back."

And they always did.

When father had died, everything she had known was gone. He had been strong enough to keep them together in the years that they lived under his control, but in those that followed everything had fallen apart. The eldest and strongest of the family had finally decided to stop playing games with each other and had finally decided to go at the other's throats. In order to protect herself, Reina had decided that controlling the entire peninsula was the only way to secure herself against their brother, and if that meant annexing her younger sister and her lands, then that was how it would be.

She was ashamed to admit it, then and especially now, but in a way she was almost grateful for it. The world without father had seemed cold and empty, and even if sister was callous it was better than being alone. Even though she fought with Francis, things had still been ok for a time, and though Francis was kind he had less direction than Reina, so it seemed better just to stay. _Safer._

Little brother, of course, had been left alone in the East. He was the youngest but he was strong, and it seemed like it might be ok.

But they were wrong.

Sister had always been so strong, so powerful and everlasting. Novinha had not been prepared to crawl about her sister's southern palace in the dead of night like an interloper, frightened half out of her mind but desperate to find the other. She had not been prepared to enter that room, _that room, _that reeked of blood and hate.

To see her sister laying there, Reina, who had always seemed to be in control of her world, little more than a breathing corpse, a mess of spilled blood and torn flesh.

She had wept, terrified and reeling from her grief. And things had been terrible for a while, but eventually that changed too. Big brother, whether out of camaraderie or guilt, had fought for them, aiding Reina in freeing herself and her country as he lead holy wars against the apostates in the East.

And little brother?

His grief may had been just as strong as her own, but his love was much stronger. Reina had been the center of his world, and with his childish determination he had thrown himself into a bloody, carnage filled war that would last the rest of his piteously short life. He had fought and he had bled for her, and even after the Caliphate was killed he kept fighting, desperate to bring vengeance down upon the man who had desecrated the purity of the woman whom he had treasured and loved above even his own life.

And what had happened to him?

Her fingers tighten even harder, and she can almost hear the skin across her palm tear as the cross cuts into her flesh.

Her poor little family, torn apart by the man who had murdered their youngest brother and who had robbed the eldest of what had remained of her sanity.

'_And where was God though all of this?'_

She can feel his hand close over her own, his touch awkward but light as his fingers tried to pry her hand open. Her grip tightens for half a moment, letting the metal dig in deeper, almost like a punishment for her sinful thought before she lets him finish his task. She would have let her hand fall to her side, but he holds onto it, his thumb still for a moment before hesitantly rubbing against the inside of her hand, wiping away the blood that welled up from where the cross had pierced her flesh.

Her eyes are closed, but she can see the concern that would be in his face, half hidden in his eyes as he tried to maintain his normal mien. England was still very young, and it was not fair to worry him, so she wipes her eyes. She's ashamed of her grief, not only because there is no need to show such a face in front of Arthur, but because there was more she could have done for her younger brother.

She hadn't earned the right to cry for him.

_Not yet._

England takes an awkward, hesitant half step towards her. He's not used to the action, barely even used to the idea of comfort itself, but she knows that he will try. She lets his hand linger for another moment before pulling it away, shifting to the side in order to create more space between them. "I'm sorry Arthur, please forget this." She uses her newly freed hand to brush off the rest of her tears, and for an instant she can feel the warmth that lingered from his hand against her face. The moment passes.

His hand is still outstretched towards her for a few moments after she pulls away. He draws his hand back tentatively, still wanting to reach out to her but not knowing how. Eventually, it drops to his side, and his posture straightens. "Of course. Think nothing of it." And she'll do her best to forget it, in the years that would separate this date from the present.

In England's mind, however, it will linger.

"The land's just not enough for us, you know. Not enough for our kind." He nods absently, both arms bracing himself against the railing yet again. "It will never be enough for us to live in peace."

"Maybe not here." It's an off comment, the words barely thought of before they left his lips. She's silent for a moment, and then nods.

"No, not here."

"Then where?" Where could they go, the two of them would be freed from the madness and hate that plagued their families? Where?

"'Where, Arthur?" Her face is still wet from her tears, but there's a slight smile on her face. "Don't you love the sea?" He looks a trace confused, but he nods. "Then trust it. If mankind can trust a God they've never seen with their souls, I think I can trust the sea as well." She smiles at him, and after a moment he smiles back.

"Maybe someday we'll reach a promised land here on earth. Maybe someday," her eyes move away from him, and she looks back at the sea, as if the answer to their lives lied just beyond the horizon. "Maybe someday we'll be free."

'_Free_.' The word feels funny on his lips as he mouths the word, but he likes it. A smile curls onto his lips. "Freedom."

The wind picks up around them, and he can feel the tails of his coat spreading out behind him. His coat is open, so he can feel more of the wind through the thin cloth of his shirt, and it feels good against his skin; hers is completely closed, with only the fastenings around her neck open. He wishes she would open hers too, just so she could feel the comforting caress as he did.

"Arthur?" Her voice is quiet, and when he turns to look at her he can see that her eyes are still fixed upon the sea. "Yes, Novinha?"

"We have been friends for a long time, haven't we?" It's a statement more than a question, but he nods all the same. "And yet, in the greater scope of things, that hasn't been a very long time at all." He frowns, but there is no point in arguing the point. Besides, she's not saying that their friendship is worth little, just that it is young.

Still, he wishes she wouldn't speak like that. There was a gentle sort of helplessness in her words that always made him hate himself for not being able to make it go away.

"And someday our friendship may end, or it will change into something we won't be able to recognize anymore." Her head cocks to the side. "Perhaps that would be the worst." He says nothing, his fingers tightening along the rail.

"Will you promise me something?" He doesn't have to think about it before he nods. "Of course."

'_I would promise you anything.'_

It's a while before she continues. Unlike him, her hands do not fidget, and her eyes do not waver, but he knows she is steeling herself for whatever she has to say to him. He waits, and eventually it comes.

"Whatever happens, to any of us, whether it's to Francis or your brothers, or to even myself, I don't want this to be all that there is for you. I don't won't you spending the rest of your life on the isles where half the people hate you just for existing."

There's a lump in his throat, and the words that he wants to speak are trapped within it. She presses on. "I don't know what is beyond the horizon, or if there really is anything out there but sea, but I want you to promise that you won't just stay here." Her eyes move over towards him, and he isn't sure if what he sees is sadness or resolve.

"Are you asking me to leave?" He laughs weakly, but it doesn't seem to upset her. "No, it's not that Arthur. If I could, I wish you would stay with me forever." He stiffens, and it feels like the breath has been forced out of his chest. She moves her gaze away from him, preserving his privacy, a glum smile weighing loosely upon her lips. "I wish you would, but that's just me being selfish."

'_I don't want this life for you.'_

_I've already earned it._

"What I want is for you to go out there and make it a part of yourself. There's more of the world than just what's here, I know that, in my heart if not in my mind. Will you do that for me, Arthur?"

"What about you?" The words come out as a whisper, and he's not sure if he wants to hear her answer. She shrugs, and he hates the way that she acts like she doesn't care, since he does. "I'll do what I can."

_'And you will do what you must.'_

Her lips curve into a smirk, and for once it actually looks genuine. "Besides, don't think for a second that I don't want this as badly as you do, that I don't want off of this miserable continent."

Her hand brushes against his shoulder, squeezing briefly before letting go. "I just need you to promise that you won't stop searching for what's out there, alright?" He wishes her hand would have stayed longer, but it won't.

"Of course." It's all that she needs him to say, and when he does she feels a little more at peace. The waves keep lapping at the edge of the ship, and she hopes that someday those waves will guide him towards a better life.

_Away from here._

* * *

**Historical & Author's Notes**_**: **_Takes place after the 100 Years War, and at the ending edge of the War of the Roses. The fall of the Constantinople in 1453 by the Ottoman Empire marked the end of the Byzantine Empire, which had already been weakened by attacks from the Western Christian Empires (such as the 4th Crusade, where the Latin invaders captured and sacked Constantinople).

This is just at the edge of the beginning of global sea travel, which is primarily marked by the 1492 expedition of Italian explorer Christopher Columbus (financed by the Kingdom of Spain) to the 'West Indies' which turned out to disappoint everyone by being the Caribbean. Nonetheless, the New World will soon be discovered by the kingdoms of Europe.

**Next Up: **Memories will fade and nations may die, but a legacy is immortal. Alexandria, 38 BC


	17. Xénoi sto Skotádi

**Everlasting Night**

**Title: **Prelude to Conflict  
**Chapter 17: **Xénoi sto Skotádi**  
Characters: **Ancient Greece, Kemet**  
Rating: **PG-13**  
Summary: **A stranger is only someone whose heart you haven't touched yet.

_Alexandria, 38 BC_

It was strange, walking through these hallways. It's the sort of thing that doesn't press his mind during the day, but when the warmth that the sun brought into the world was stripped away, it seemed like that was all that was left to him.

'_All that was left.' _He smirks, and while it hurts his face to do it, his dried skin seeming set upon not giving him any reign to his own expression, he can't help himself.

'_And what's really left now, after all was said and done?'_

He knows that these thoughts are going in circles just to distract him: they're a primitive comfort to him, keeping his thoughts from straying towards those dark corners of his mind where they have been edging towards with each passing day. Every day that he felt less like an empire.

Every day where he felt less like a man.

His lips twist again, and if he grimaces again, he doesn't notice. Along with this, he doesn't notice the carvings along the hall, nor the gold that seems to gild every surface that was available. In the daylight, this hall would be beautiful, ravishing in its excess and beauty that seemed to accumulate so freely in this land.

At night, however, it seemed little more than just another empty passageway, full of cracked glamours that made it into a grotesque graveyard to half-realized hopes and broken dreams.

His footsteps are soft as he makes his way across, barely louder than the whispers of the desert wind that brushed against the edges of the terraces along the outer wall. He doesn't like that. He wants to stomp his feet, kick over one of the obscene statues that suggested a majestic wealth that had long since left the land. Something.

Anything.

Anything that made him seem like more than just a ghost, haunting these halls so far from his home.

But he couldn't. He never could. That was probably why he was here now, with little more than the flickering shadows of torchlight guiding his path. He never could bring himself to do the things that could have brought him down to the level of a common man. His pride would never let him, would never let him diminish the standing as a nation that he had so painstaking created for himself.

He never could.

_Never_.

But Rome could.

'_And he did.'_

And who did Greece have to blame but himself?

He can see the doors now, and he feels himself beginning to slow his steps. There is no reason for him to do so, since he was the one who had requested this meeting (with Rome's _precious permission, _of course; the Empire had laughed in his face when he had asked, but after cradling his old friend's cheek, and as his lips had ghosted against the others, he had replied, _'Why not?'_), and if he was going to waste his time, he shouldn't waste hers as well. Still, he finds himself lingering, and while his fingertips ghost over the gilded entryway, he can't bring himself to bear pressure against it.

He waits, and he can see a plume of his breath when it hits the cold metal, the door almost unbearably cold at this hour of the night. He waits, and he waits, then he twists his hands, resting his knuckles for a bear instant against the gold before rapping against it, the sound hollow and mocking in the emptiness around him.

There is no reply.

He waits for a moment, his arm still outstretched, his loose fist hovering near its former place. The silence stretches onward, but he does not lower his hand, nor does he repeat the motion. He knows that she is there, and he knows that she is awake. He knows this with the quiet certainty that she can't be any other place but this: Rome would not let her leave her palace. All he can do is wait for her to let him in.

After more than half a minute (though it seems much, _much longer_), there is finally an answer. Just one word, spoken softly yet firmly enough for it to carry out into the hall.

"Enter."

There is no weakness in that voice, nor fatigue despite the late hour. It gives no indication as to what he will find once he crosses over the threshold and into her company, but there is no time for him to be thinking of such things.

He's here out of duty, after all.

The doors are heavy, but they give way easily under his hands. The hinges are silent, allowing the partition of both metal and wood to open soundlessly, refusing to acknowledge their own presence with sound. This flickers at the edge of his consciousness, passing out of his mind before it ever really sets in. His thoughts are locked with what his eyes are soon set upon, which in this dim light are focused upon the form in front of him. The muscles in the back of his neck tighten, and his lips thin as he attempts to maintain a mien of neutrality. It's hard, though, but he tries.

They just look so much alike.

For a few seconds, the fact that she is sitting with her legs curled beside her allows for the illusion that there isn't a difference in height between the two women, though it would be hard to imagine any female with the same build as the one from his memory. After the initial jolt, it is easier to see the differences: the hair and skin may be similar, but little else would link the two. He lowers his eyes.

It isn't disappointment that he feels tugging at his heart.

"I already told you that you could come in." The voice is speaking again, and whether it is hints of irritation or amusement in its regal tones he can hardly tell: it is more likely a mix of both, but without much force behind either.

He half stumbles coming in, backtracking for a few steps in order to close the door behind him. Turning allows him to break eye contact from her, and while he is grateful for the reprieve, he knows that it cannot last. After a few moments, he turns back towards her, his eyes doing their best not to raise towards her face. Hopefully, in this light she won't notice.

Since he cannot see her face, he doesn't see the small the small twist of her lips, as a faint edge of bemusement crosses over her tired features. Despite everything that has passed, she can still find some small amusement in the forced regality of this much younger nation. For a few moments, she can forget why both of them are here. Still, that moment passes too.

"We're not the same, if that was what you were wondering."

'_Or hoping for.' _she thinks watching as his shoulders stiffen further and a light flush can be seen at the high points of his cheeks. Still, his feet remain rooted where they are. It's a tad irritating, since he was the one who had asked for this meeting in the first place. She wishes he could have at least waited until morning.

Oh well. There wasn't much time left anyways. Why not now?

Her arms are extended on either side of her, holding up her [now] frail weight against the bedding below her; it is an easy but slow task in raising one of her arms, her fingers curling in towards her, beckoning him to come further. "Eláte pio kontá,** agóri mou**."

There's a definite emphasis on the last part of the sentence, and perhaps the slight surprise on hearing her speak in his language causes his footsteps to draw nearer to her again before stopping once more, this time traversing the space between the door and her bed before ending their journey at the foot of her bed. '_**Boy**__, huh_?'

Aside from her arms, she makes no other move towards him. He waits for a moment, but she makes no effort to be nearer to him, and as such he maintains his position away from her. He can't quite bring himself to be too near to her. He doesn't want to pretend.

Noticing the other's need for distance, as small, exasperated sigh comes forth from her lips. "Really, I hope you're not expecting me to keep dealing with you while you keep trying to hide from me. I'm tired, and the less my voice has to carry, the better. So, please," she shifts on the bed, her arms pushing herself backwards a bit in order to readjust her weight, "come a little closer. I beg your pardon, but I cannot come much nearer to you. It tires me."

Her later sentences steadily carry less strength than the ones before them, and he can sense the unseen, silently overwhelming tiredness that seems to hover just beyond her acerbity. He moves a little closer, his hands unconsciously joining in front of him, a sort of unbidden gesture to create more space between them. It was almost a sweet gesture, but in her weariness it was just nauseatingly irksome. She didn't need this from some _child _who wasn't even an empire any more.

Not that she was really anyone to speak now.

She pushes herself back farther, and she feels her strength begin to fade as her back finally makes contact with the headboard. It's a welcomed rest. "Just sit over on the corner there," she orders brusquely, pointing towards the end of the bed that was slightly nearer towards her, "and we can finish whatever you so desperately needed to come here for."

He frowns at this, and his hands disengage from each other in order for his arms to cross against his chest. "I would rather not, if you did not mind, Aígyptos_._" He says her name a bit more coldly than he intended, but the breach in etiquette that she is requesting takes up more of his attention. It just wasn't fitting, being so near to her in that way. He takes a shuffled side step towards her, but comes no nearer. After glaring at him for the better part of a minute, she resigns herself to having to deal with his childishly formal ways. "Very well then. Just tell me what you want, paidí?"

He doesn't look very well, and even in this light she can see that the heavy shadows under his eyes are not just from the candlelight. His face is too gaunt, and it is too pale, and she feels like she is losing strength just having to look upon his tired form. She doesn't quite feel pity, for it is not as if he had suffered longer and any more than herself; it was more of a quiet consideration, accepting his irrational wish for a meeting just so he could spend a few peaceful days out from under Rome's thumb. It was the least she could do, she supposed.

"Well?" He was taking his time in answering her, the floor suddenly becoming increasingly interesting to him since it offered a way to avoid eye contact yet again. It was just hard looking at her, when there were so many hints and traces of the woman he had once known before. "Forgive me if I have intruded upon you, Lady Aígyptos-"

"Shut up." Her words are clipped and prime, with an unmistakable edge right underneath their polite surface. "I didn't wait here, after your [_Rome's_] little messenger arrived, just for you to sulk about like a child and not even look at me." She pushes herself up for a moment before falling back, her arms not quite ready to hold her weight yet again. She adds it up as just another irritation in this already irritating meeting.

"If you have a valid reason for wanting to be here, other than just another opportunity to display how wonderfully awkward and frustrating you can be, please, feel free to announce it."

One finger taps out an uneasy staccato against his forearm as he listens to her admonishments, his eyes still carefully gazing everywhere but at her. This should have been easier, for once being far [at least relatively] away from his former friend and current master. Still, the words he had wanted to form in his head can't bring themselves to form sentences again for him, and he silently curses his inability to act. It is hard to determine whether it is Rome or his own indecisiveness that has robbed him of his manhood.

Or perhaps, it was neither, with the blame lying with the one who was now so far away from him.

"I was just wondering-" he pauses before continuing, trying to reframe his sentence into something less insubstantial. She cocks a narrow brow at him, but he continues without further prodding from the other. "I came to see how you were."

There is utter silence for a full moment, and then a laugh makes its way unbidden from her throat, the sound dry but genuine, echoing flatly within the confines of her chambers.

It wasn't an intentional sound, but honest all the same, and she drops her weight against the headboard again as she feels more peels of laughter issuing from her throat. In his defense, he says nothing to her mirth, letting her amusement runs its course before interrupting.

"_You_-" her words are interrupted by a breathless gasp, hand moving to rest against her heaving breast, "You can to see if I was _ok_?" The last part of the sentence is lost in another torrent of laughter: the violent jerks are painful on her tired frame, but it almost seemed worth it. She looks up at him, exasperation mixed with dark amusement entering her tone. "_Does it fucking look like I'm alright?_"

His lips purse as he considers the weight of her words, and his eyes look over her with a clinical sort of detachment. "I suppose I am not quite sure." His eyes flit up towards hers. "I believe I would need you to tell me if you were."

Her laughter has already began to die down at this point, a few muffled snorts hidden behind a dainty hand. Her eyes appraise him coldly, a dull luster in her eyes that shared the same color as the leaden skies before a storm. "Tell me, paidí, what would you care whether I was well or not? You never bothered with speaking with me much before, back when your little islands and homeland were still safe from our _dear _little Rome?" Her lips drop any hint of a smile that they had held before. "What does it matter to you now?"

It's a bit discomforting being around her, but it is far from overwhelming: the years he had spent alongside her sister had gone a long way in strengthening his nerve. "It matters to me," he says cautiously, not wanting to provoke further amusement nor anger, "as both a nation and as a man, as to the well being of another whom, due to unfortunate circumstances and fate, has fallen into a similar status as myself." He is satisfied with his answer, but it still doesn't seem to be quite enough.

"Are you saying," her smile is back upon her lips, but it never quite reaches all the way to her eyes, "that you are visiting me, your former rival, not out of curiosity but out of," she twirls one hand in a circular gesture of futility, "_camaraderie? _Paidí, you need to learn how to lie better, though at this point I'm not sure how much that will help you-"

"No." He shakes his head, his arms still crossed tightly together, "that isn't why I have come here." She shrugs dismissively, already tired of this game. "Then why?"

He swallows hard. One of his fingers run over an old scar, and the memory pushes him to continue. "I needed," -_and he truly did-_ "I needed to see if you were truly alright. As alright as any of us could be, as-"

"The lovely little breakable toys, to our most darling empire?" Her words come out so prettily, and as she turns her face to the side he can't be sure as to whether the expression on her face is a sneer or a grimace. There is silence after this, and after a deep breath she finally continues. "I suppose I should at least _pretend _to be grateful. It is not like I receive many visitors in this state."

"Perhaps, if things were different, she would come to you."

To her credit, the woman doesn't flinch, but there is a tightening in the wasted muscles of her arms that hint that the subject is one that would be dangerous if broached. "What business would she have here? Would it be a comfort to me, if she was dying alongside me?" Her eyes move back towards him, hatred (though not for himself), shining dully in them.

"Would it be a comfort to you?"

It is partly a question, mostly an accusation, and he doesn't rise to her bait. "I wouldn't wish this upon anyone. At least in the East she will be safe."

The woman's lips twist into what could have been a smirk. "For now. In the end, all of us were safe until Rome decided that he had wanted to play with us." She shifts her position yet again, and with her face cast downward he can see that her lovely face (once _rumored to be the most beautiful on earth_), is lined with weariness and stress. She is starting to look old. Far too old, and that scares him.

After a moment's thought, she leans over her legs, her hands bunching up in the fabric that clung along the lines of her calves. "I suppose we cannot be too harsh in our _judgments_ on our young tyrant." The shell of a smirk that clung to her lips fights to remain on them, but it pushes more towards being a grimace as she has to move her legs.

"I suppose I should be grateful to him." Her hands gingerly pull the hem of her skirt up, exposing her long legs which stretched out uselessly from her. His eyes unbiddenly look down at them before trying to look away, but he sees them long enough to notice the stretches of scar tissue that ran cruelly along the back of her knees and heels. "At least he allowed me to keep my vanity."

She pushes her skirt back down gently, almost tenderly laying the linen down along her lame appendages. She looks back up at him, and the hate dims down into a helpless bitterness. "He was within his rights to take them off, should it have please him, but he didn't." Her hand rests sorrowfully along her ruined flesh. "He thought is was more, _amusing _this way, and besides: he doesn't like deformed women, no matter how subhuman they are."

Her eyes move away from him, and her next words are empty, as hollow as their lives had become since their young neighbor had risen to power throughout their world. "How kind he is to us all."

He can't find himself to speak for a moment. His eyes had since moved away from her hamstrung legs but the images still remained fresh within his minds eye. For not the first time, he wishes he had killed Rome when he had still been young, to have dispatched him as his ally [Partner_? _Friend_? Bride?_] had warned him all those years ago. "I'm sorry."

She scoffs at that, but can't quite bring herself to laugh. "And what for? What does your apology matter here, paidí?"

His shoulder shrug forward, and he finds himself taking his seat on the edge of the bed as she had asked him before, his arms uncrossing in order to rest on either side of him, maintaining his balance. "I just am. I suppose I am sorry for a lot of things."

"Regret is not something alien to our kind." They're not looking at each other, and despite their close proximity it provides with them with a level of privacy that allowed them to be comfortable around the other. "Nor is misfortune. I believe both of us have seen enough of that."

He nods his head, and there's silence again. It's not broken until he feels her shifting her weight beside him, and a delicate hand comes to rest on her shoulder. "How was she, when you last saw her?"

"It was a long time ago." He whispers quietly. 'I'm not sure what could have changed in the last 300 years.

"Don't be foolish, boy." She gives him a light push at this, but it isn't out of anger. "And it's been over _600 hundred _since I've seen her, so a slightly more update version of her well being would go a long way in calming an old woman's nerves."

His next words come out quickly, an ingrained childish form of respected he had never been able to shake. "You don't look old." _Tired_ is what she looks like, but he would never say that out loud. Besides, the two women were sisters, and were somewhat close in age, and when he had last seen Elaheh she had still looked young [and healthy] enough. He couldn't imagine that drastically changing since then.

"And you're still a bad liar. Still, tell me what I need to know." Underlying her humor, there is an almost hidden resonance of desperation in her voice. It's not like she doesn't have a right to worry over her own kin.

"She was fine. Tall, healthy, smarter than any man I've ever met." She nods at this. "She was always very smart, in a narrow but specific field. Warfare had always been her specialty." She shoots a hidden glance towards her companion, a hint of a smile upon her lips. "Any losses she ever suffered were due to weakness with the hearts of her kings, never from herself."

He nods at this, neither willing to argue with her nor denying that truth. "Also, she was-" he pauses briefly, before deciding it would be safe to continue, "still fairly angry at everything and nothing in particular. It was hard to be around her, for even in the best of times she wanted little to do with me."

A knowing sigh makes it ways from between the elder's lips. "Some things do never change. She can't help it, you see, the poor girl was made that way." She's leaning against him now, and he doesn't know if her pressing against him or the distressingly slight weight that she possesses alarms him more. "Though I suppose, you killing off her poor little king didn't make her any happier of a person, don't you think?"

"I didn't kill her king." His shoulders stiffen, though she doesn't make a move to pull away. "But you drove him to his death." That's not a fair argument, all the more because there are hints of truth in it.

"Had he been within my custody, he would not have been killed. We would have shown him more mercy than his own men did." She shrugs, but still nods in agreement. "I suppose you're right. Had that not of been true," her head is resting against his shoulder, and he remains still, "I don't believe she would have stayed with you as long as she did." There is no response from the other, not that she had been expecting one.

"I suppose only my darling sister knows why she did the things she did. Little good would come from second guessing now, is that not so paidí?"

"My name is not 'paidí', Kyría Aígyptos."

"And my name is not Aígyptos."

There is silence again, but it is not as discomforting as it was before. "Then what name would you have me call you by, Kyría?"

She smirks against his arm. It was nice to be called something other than a rotting whore these days. "As I nation, I am Kemet." She stretches out her tired arms a bit before continuing on. "And as a woman, I have always been Naqada."

He nods thoughtfully. "I see."

"Ki esý?"

"Aléxandros."

"A fine name, for the little Philosopher of Greece." He can't be sure whether her teasing is meant to be kind of not, but he decides it doesn't matter: it's his turn to smirk, and if she doesn't see it, it doesn't count. Still, he knows why her thin arms [_much too thin_] are wrapping around his shoulders, and try as he might he knows that there will be no easy way to deal with it.

"Tell me, young Aléxandros," And young he is indeed, far too young to be facing his death so cruelly, but what was fate but cruel? Her next words are spoken against his ear, barely more than a whisper. "Were you ever able to see the child?"

There is silence after that, and while he doesn't not push her off or fall into a fit of weeping, there is little else that he can be proud of: instead, he just sits there, his hands idle in his lap as the elder sister to the one person whom he had wanted to share his life with comforted him. Comforted him, as the once glorified nation of Greece grieved the loss of the child that would never be his.

_Could _never be his, despite the fact that he had fathered it and that he would have loved it and its mother with every fiber of his being.

Elaheh would never allow him to be its father.

And she had never told him why.

There's a slight hitch in his shoulders, and a tightness clenches in his chest most cruelly. Her fingers run along his shoulders, as quiet whispers of comfort in a tongue far older than his own float towards him. He doesn't know how long they sit there (and he will have to leave this land before midday, for Rome will expect him to return to him on time and no one can disappoint Rome without receiving punishment), but his body aches for the comfort of another, and it seems she does not mind being the one to give it to him at this moment.

As for herself, her arms remain tight around him, because at this valley of her life, little but her old habits remain: she had been far too used to comforting her young sister to allow the girl's mate here to suffer more than he needed to.

After a while, her words slow, and eventually return back to the language that both of them know so well. "Lypámai." This time, she's the one to say it needlessly, but he appreciates it all the same. "Thank you." She uses him to pull herself up, and presses her cheek against his own as her face is lined against his own. "It was a son that she had." He nods absently, not really agreeing with anything. There's a dull warmth growing inside his gut: it was a small thing, finally figuring out the gender of the child he had never been allowed to see. And yet, somehow it was a great relief: in someway it made it more real, making his [_their_]child seem more than just an abandoned dream.

How he wished he could have seen his son once, just once before he died.

"I'm afraid I know little more than that, little Greece. Take some comfort in knowing that, whatever shall happen to the rest of us, she and her heir will live on in peace for a while longer." It's a small comfort indeed, but in this world there is little comfort to be found anywhere, so he will take what he could. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me." She finally moves away from him, forcing her arms to push her back towards her original position, her legs following limply. "I'm not the one who bore the child. I only know of him because we are blood linked." She smiles wanly. "It is one of the few things that I have been able to hold onto in my decline. As to what my sister knows or thinks, I can no longer tell."

"Still," He leans back upon his arms, his back arching as he stretched his own weary frame. "It makes the knowledge no less appreciated." His eyes move down, and a smile alights forlornly against his lips. "If they are safe and happy together, I believe I can be content."

"As a man, maybe." Her old regal tone is seeping back into her voice, and her amusement from before seems to fade a bit. "And what will you do as a nation?" He turns towards her, light confusion marring his once peaceful face. "I'm not sure what you are inferring to."

She lets out a heavy breath, as if dealing with the willfully inept. "You apparently haven't paid much mind in what you wish to leave your people, in the event of your, _untimely _demise." And by 'untimely', she meant 'forthcoming'. His face falls at this, but the confusion still remains. Another touch of aggravation enters her voice.

"You do realize, that of all of the empires and nations within 2,000 miles of the Mediterranean, save yourself, have all produced heirs?" A light sneer crosses her face. "Even the little Roman bastard, the youngest of us all, already has three-"

"And what about you?" It's not much of a retort, and she just shrugs her shoulders. "I already have one. My daughter is being cared for in the south, where she will remain. I'm not the one jeopardizing my future."

"Kemet, I-"

"_Naqada._"

"Yes, Naqada, I don't understand your reasoning. I already have a child."

She gives him a tight, pained little smile. It is almost hard to believe that she is needing to explain this to this boy. "Indeed you do, little Greece. You every so nobly fathered _Persia's _child. " She waves her hand to the side. "_Persia's _heir. Not yours. Unless I am mistaken, and your lands are about to be joined together by a common king, I don't believe it counts."

The little warm feeling that he had felt earlier quietly drifts away. Surely, there must be something else that she doesn't understand. "But if the child is born from the union of two empires-"

She just shakes her head. "The boy will follow his mother's path. He will embody and continue her traditions until, and beyond, her point of death." She points finger at him, almost accusingly. "You, on the other hand, apparently hadn't had the sense to impregnate some chambermaid before Rome took power." Now the finger wags at him. "Not such a bad idea, in retrospect. It's better to willingly lay with a servant, than to be forced down by an enemy. Only in one case is the child truly yours."

"But you don't understand," -and by her facial expression, she certainly doesn't- "It's not that I never thought to produce an heir of my own. It's just that," He lifts his hands, extending his arms out in front of him, trying to gesture in a way that would help her understand but failing to. "It's just that, just…"

His hands drop uselessly into his lap, and his head hangs along with them. She watches him quietly, emotionlessly beside him; she doesn't need him to speak in order to understand what he means.

It's not that the man had never planned on having children.

The poor boy had just never wanted to have children with anyone other than Elaheh.

'_Such a pity.'_

"I don't know what to do. I don't think that Rome, that maybe," he turns towards her, an eager sort of desperation spilling across his face, "maybe Rome really won't, maybe he'll-"

"Don't fool yourself, boy." She wants to slap him, but he's just far enough out of her reach for her to do it. "Do you really think he will just keep us to play with?" She sighs, letting her head fall back against the wall as her eyes close. "Why else would he be so eager to collect his toys, if not so he could have more to play with when the others broke?"

It's true, and he knows it, and as badly as he wishes it wasn't, it is. They're both quiet for a long time, and when he looks up at one of the walls, he can see a slight glimmer of the upcoming morning beginning to brush against the darkness. He is almost out of time. "So what am I supposed to do for my people?"

There's silence again, but while there is emptiness on his part, indecision mars hers. Finally, her weakened, embittered and aged but still terribly beautiful frame pulls itself towards him once more. There is her hand upon his shoulder, and after a moment it moves on onto his cheek. Her words are quiet, but firm, and she will only say them once: it is a one time offer, since there isn't much time left.

Not for either of them.

Besides, he took care of her sister as best as he could, and had given her the child she would never have admitted to have wanted. It was only fair…

"Would you like one that may look like her?"

It's almost an innocent question, and if he wanted to he could misconstrue it, and they would never speak of it again in whatever remained of their lives. He takes a minute to ponder upon it, before he raises a hand to lay against hers.

"Yes."

* * *

**Historical and Author's Notes: **Continuation after Chapter 10, gives or take a few years. The Rise of Rome at the cost of the decline of two others, as the world turns. The Ancient kingdoms of Greece and Egypt had never exactly been friends, with Greek invasions and unkind feelings on both sides that would last until they were both silenced, yet both traded their arts and sciences since they were the leaders in those fields.

Children of these empires/nations weren't necessarily the heirs/successor nations, depending on the 'family' situation. Kemet had a child with an inferior/weaker mate, and held full control over her child (as Rome had full rights to all of his children). The Ottoman Empire, on the other hand, had a child with a vassal nation (Egypt), and kept the child when she left (as Greece was unable to keep his own). Confusing? A bit. Think of heirs as the ultimate form of insurance, since in the case of capture/death/invasion, they could keep fighting under their parent's banner, a living extension (to a degree) to their parents rule. Then again, they could also usurp a parent, or betray them to an enemy.

Ελάτε πιο κοντά, αγόρι μου.- Eláte pio kontá, agóri mou. - Come closer, boy.  
Αίγυπτος - Aígyptos - Egypt  
Παιδί - paidí - Child  
Κυρία - Kyría - Lady  
Κι εσύ? - Ki esý? - And you?  
Λυπάμαι - Lypámai - I'm sorry.  
Ξένοι στο σκοτάδι - Xénoi sto Skotádi - Extraños en la Obscured

**Next Up:** For who are we to divide the world, when God has already brought it upon himself to do it? The ruins of Tenochtitlan, 1530 AD


	18. Imborrable Pecado

20100702 Edit: BRASIL! You broke my heart today! Cada equipo que me animan a favor, ellos rompe mi corazón! 美国，英国，墨西哥，everyone! Yo estoy un poco triste ahora, pero, no me gusta fútbol muy mucho, so I'll get over it soon. Anyways, here's a second crack at re-editing. Enjoy.

你们好! Here with more of the usual fluff. *sigh*, sometimes I wonder if I will ever get around to writing something happy [Ch. 4 was happy…except…well, if you know Mexican history...oh nevermind]. Well, this isn't exactly 'Prelude to Super-Happy-Fun-Time', but by the time of the next set (12 chapters away), things will lighten up…kinda…maybe not really, but they'll be less 'soon-to-be-dead' people. Enjoy?

Also, pardon any historical bias. Or don't. Can't change history, can we?

* * *

**Everlasting Night**

**Title: **Prelude to Conflict**  
Chapter 18: **Imborrable Pecado  
**Characters: **España y Portugal**  
Rating: **PG-13**  
Summary: **It is not the people who bind us, but our choices that never allow us to be free.

_Ruins of Tenōchtitlan , 1530 AD_

"Enjoying yourself, little sister?"

There is a pointed tinge to her words, amusement laced delicately along each syllable with pitiless ease. Portugal doesn't answer, and her sister doesn't need her to: her face alone says more than words possibly can.

There's a pained look of quiet revulsion on the younger's face, an agonized mix of horror and disgust barely concealed with her natural look of placid calm. Her lips are pursed tightly together, her fingers interlaced rigidly in order to prevent her from wringing her hands together.

She didn't want to give Reina the satisfaction of watching her fidget like the child she believed she no longer was.

It was still early in the morning, and the humidity had yet to rein its control over the day. However, it was not so early in the morning for the site to be obscured by the misty haze that had covered the land all those hours ago when they had arrived. No, nothing was hidden now.

And there was nowhere to hide.

"I must say, it loses a little bit of its splendor with this decay. A few years, and all to ruin." Reina brushes a few stray strands of hair away from her face, securing them with a pin when a the light wind continued to push the strands out of place. "It's not quite the same, when it was bustling with its insects, but I hope you can use your imagination." She had long since left her sister's side, walking around the perimeter with a lightness in her step as she took in the sights around them with warm regard.

They were nothing new to her now, the grand structures little more than background scenery now. It was much more amusing, watching the emotions at war upon her darling sister's face as the younger tried to keep her composure. The girl was making a valiant effort, even if it was all in vain.

She smiled warmly at the younger. "Come closer to me, Madalena. I want you to see more of this."

The sound of her familiar name (one that only two people is this world still called her) does little to drag her from her thoughts: her hands just tighten, and even though they are interwoven, they begin to twist. It hurts, and she offhandedly hears a few of the joints in her fingers pop; still, she won't come closer.

A hand deftly weaves itself around her waist, and looking up she can see that the elder has brought herself over to her, pulling her flush against her side. "Come now little sister, don't give me that face." A finger presses against her bottom lip, moving upward to tap her nose as if Novinha was still a child. "I brought you all the way here, I want you to see everything." With that, she pulls the smaller woman alongside her, gracefully guiding/dragging the other towards the remains of the imperial city.

The hem of her skirt drags lightly against the stones that were laid beneath their feet, the soft swishing of fabric the only sound as they made their way along the main avenue. On either side of them, they were flanked by Reina's guards, her men's armor flashing dimly as the sun's early rays cast down upon them. Whatever their thoughts were, they kept them to themselves, marching steadily along with their eyes trained straight in front of them.

Novinha wishes she could do the same.

The wasted splendor around her is sickening, the feeling only matched by the rancid warmth that pressed firmly beside her, her sister's body still far more aged than her own. For once, Reina had shed her normal dress, opting instead to don a variant of the uniforms that her captains wore abroad her ships. It was unsettling in a way, making Novinha feel oddly exposed. It had been years since she had left the European continent, and even at sea-travel she would only go so far into the Atlantic.

She had never been so far away from home before.

It was an island that they were upon, surrounded by a grand lake inland from the sea, and from their original distance it was hard to discern the actual scale of what remained of the city. Up close, it was haunting, the shell of the former capital rising around her. The massive slabs of stone that constructed what could only be temples still stood in their former glory, but whatever gods that they had once been dedicated to had long since abandoned this land. The temple steps, long since bleached a dull flaxen color, matched the soft rays of the early sun. Along those steps, as with much of the temples, there were broad swatches of a dull brown covering the stone structures. It took little of her imagination to figure what could be marring the sordid perfection.

It was amazing, how little of the blood had faded away after all of these years.

"You should have been here, when we first came to this place." Reina's voice is calm and warm, and Novinha feels herself edging closer towards her, repulsed at the thought of drawing nearer but unable to move away: the foul comfort that her sister's body possessed was all that could steady her nerves in this alien land. Whether Reina noticed, she didn't seem to mind.

"It was beautiful then as well, little Madalena, even with the savages still lurching about." Reina gracefully steps over a small pile of rubble that Novinha stumbles over, the elder not even missing a step when she had to bear more of her sister's weight. "If you had seen them," her face turns slightly towards her sister's, "you would be wearing an even more distressed face than you are now. Come little sister, do you think I just brought you here to scare you?"

Of course, that would have been unnecessary, since the Spanish Empire was quite capable of terrorizing her young neighbor within the confines of her own nation. Still, she moved along briskly, as if she was shepherding her younger sister through one of the gardens at her home palace rather than a conquered alien land. Novinha keeps her silence.

"I would think you would be proud of me, Madalena, having accomplished this all by myself. I didn't need our _dear _brother to interfere on my behalf." There is a slight sneer in her cheerful voice at the mention of Francis, and Novinha doesn't think it's fair. Still, she says nothing. "All of this," Reina's free hand makes a gentle arc in front of her, "I did alone."

Eventually, the other thoughts lingering in the back of her mind come forward, and the words that Novinha speaks are not in defense of their brother. "Where are they?"

"Hmm? ¿De quién hablas?" But there isn't a questioning tone to her voice, and Portugal knows that she has been waiting to be asked that question. Novinha closes her eyes when she replies, letting herself be guided without resistance.

"The ones who lived here, who built this place. Where are they?"

Reina laughs, and while it's a pretty sound, it echoes callously within the emptiness of the former capital. "Where do you think they could be?" Her eyes move away from the younger, fluttering lovingly towards the ruins around her. "There's a little bit of all of them still around, as you can see. I'm pleased that the blood set so nicely in the stone."

Novinha's lips purse tighter together, and again she wishes she had never agreed to come along with her sister on this visit. Her eyes remain set upon the ground, her head hanging almost in shame.

She wishes Francis was here.

'_Or Arthu-'_

No.

Not England.

_Never _England.

She would never want him to be here.

Without her noticing, they reach the end of the avenue, its broad length somehow defeated by the emptiness within it. Her foot strikes lightly against the bottom step of the temple [or was it a pyramid? Surely something of this size was far beyond the scope of a mere temple] as her sister's ceased her footfalls seamlessly. The guards who had been marching alongside them all hold their positions around the temple's base, all looking stoically ahead of them and avoiding the gazes of the sister nations. It just serves to make Novinha feel even more alone.

A slight tug pulls her from her thoughts, and she feels her sister beginning to mount the steps ahead of them, urging the other along without words. Novinha hesitates, and Reina's arms curls tighter around her waist, "Mi hermanita preciososa, I don't have to drag you up these stairs, do I?" Her words are warm, and the fingers that laid along the curve of her sister's waist splay out gently against the younger's covered waist. "You agreed to come, and you're old enough to walk, so if we could just finish this one last part of our quality time together, I would be most pleased."

"That is," Their differences in height and elevation cause Reina to bend her head down towards her sister, her lips hovering close to the other's ear, "unless you really don't want to. That would be fine, little Madalena. It would be much more fun to play with your little _friend_." At this, her lips gently brush against the younger's ear, her fingers tightening their hold. "I would love nothing more than to play with the little bastard of the Celts. Would you like me to?"

She's doing this in plain sight, and if any of her men care to watch Novinha can't tell; her sister's face is pressed against her neck, and she can feel the older woman's breath hot against her skin. "_What do you want_?"

It's not right, and it's not fair, and Novinha hates herself for feeling more uncomfortable than afraid. It's not fair. One of her arms is pinned against her side by her sister's body; she moves it aside, freeing it as she lays her hand over her sister's outstretched fingers. "I wouldn't have come out here if I wasn't going to go with you." It's consent, and she can feel Reina smile against her neck. The elder's fingers release their hold, and intertwine with the younger's.

"Then let us continue."

* * *

_A week before._

The voyage from her beloved Lisboa had been an uneventful one, blissfully devoid of the political sniping that had plagued her as the three siblings dealt with the loss of their youngest brother all those years ago. It was nice and it was peaceful, lovely in its evanescence as the weeks blurred together with her crew most of which were Spaniards, a requirement of her sister's for this voyage, and finally she was reunited with her sister.

Their meeting had been formal but warm, and in the few days they had spent along the coast, it had almost felt like how they had once lived together in the years before the fall of their father. They had shared quarters together, Reina preferring to remain on ship instead on camping on the shores.

'_I don't like the lay of the land.'_ She had said, and when Novinha had asked her what was wrong with it, she just smiled at the younger. Her words didn't seem quite like an answer.

'_Because it doesn't like me.'_

On the last night they had spent before breaking camp to move inland, Portugal had chosen to stay awake. She had been laying on her back, the blankets discarded as she enjoyed that last of the day's light through the cloudy windows, partly wishing that this trip would never end and gently dreading whatever it would be that Reina wanted to show Novinha in her new lands. Reina had retired to bed far earlier in the day, politely complaining of a light headache as she had departed from her younger sister's company. Portugal had figured the elder wouldn't be awakening until the morning, and had spent the rest of her time in peaceful contemplation.

It had never crossed her mind to check if Reina had truly been sleeping.

Her peace was quietly interrupted as she felt fingers ghosting along her arm, the soft muslin of her sleeve letting her feel the gentle brush of the elders nails as they made their way along. Reina had said nothing, and Novinha didn't feel right in saying anything either, her breath stalled in her throat as she waited. If there was something Reina had wanted…well…then she would just have to wait and see. She was her own nation now, but still, the elder nation's needs ran much deeper…

_And was much more wiling to fight for them._

The fingers halt their journey when they reach the younger's wrist, carefully wrapping around it before pulling Novinha's hand towards her resting form, letting it lay above the covered swell of her breast. For a long moment, the only noise in the room is he steady breathing of the elder, Novinha waiting on bated breath.

Waiting…

Waiting…

Finally, the words come. They are quiet and there is a huskiness in her words that her accent can only partially conceal.

"A ti, soy tan vieja?"

It is a long moment before the words register in Portugal's mind.

'_Do I seem so old __to you?'_

"No, irmã, não." Novinha rolls onto her side, facing her sister as Reina's face pointed patiently towards the ceiling. "Of course it is not so. Why would you think such a thing?"

There's a light shrug from the elder's shoulders, and while Reina's eyes remain fixed, there was a faint, cheerless smile upon her unpainted lips. Her chest takes a gentle heave before she continues. "They don't like her, not like they used to. My little Catalina, how they've treated her…" Her hand raises her sister's captive one, bringing Novinha's open palm to rest against her closed eyes. "They've made her so unhappy, mi pequeña querida, she cries so, she makes my heart hurt."

Novinha has nothing to add to this, since no words could relieve her sister's mind at the sad plight of her favorite queen's unfortunate daughter. She can't change what England has done, and in comfort she caresses her elder sister's cheek with her fingers while she whispers quiet words in her native tongue.

"It's not her fault she got older." Any words that Reina held for the English King were silent, her thoughts only for the lovely princess she had once raised in her lands. "It's not my fault I got older too…"

"Stop it." Novinha brings herself closer, wrapping her free arm against her sister's torso. "You're barely older than myself, you're not old. Por que você atormentar-se?"

Reina grasps her hand again, and brings the palm against her lips, pressing a warm kiss against the soft flesh. "I don't know. My church and my princess, they suffer so." She rested after that, and she held onto her sister's hand as her breathing evened out, sleep slowly claiming the Roman princess.

For Novinha, the morning sun would have long been risen before she could find sleep. Worry had latched itself back into her heart, into the places where it had festered before.

* * *

_Present_

Still, the worry that had wormed its way back into her psyche seemed to ferment with the tropical air, twisting and reshaping itself until horror and dread lurked at the edge of every thought. Reina's steps were steady as she led her sister along the stairway towards the summit of the temple, the open walkway increasing the younger's feelings of uncertainty. She kept her eyes trained before her, and the fact that most of the stone beneath her feet is stained unnaturally dark is one that she tries to ignore.

She can't let the ghosts of this place frighten her when there were enough horrors in this world to worry about.

They ascend towards the first ringed layer of the structure, and from the corner of her right eye Portugal can see the gleam of metal, the steel shining unnaturally in this land where it does not belong. It's unnerving, that there need to be more soldiers here, waiting for the two of them (for what else could they be doing?). Still, they pass them aside, Reina's stride never once shifting from its intended course.

"Irmã." There's a heavy questioning tone to her voice, and when Reina spares a glance over towards the younger, Novinha's head jerks lightly towards the elder's men. Reina smiles. "Don't worry so much, little Madalena. None of these men are here for you. I promised yourself and our dear brother that you would have safe passage to and from these lands, so please, stop flinching at every shadow that you pass." Her faces moves forward again, and the smile remains along her lips.

"_Reina._" The insistence is heavier this time, and while their steps continue in harmony, they look at one another. "Why must we come here? Isn't there elsewhere in this land to review?"

Reina lets out a short laugh, and now her eyes smile brightly. "I'm not here for myself, little Madalena. I've spent weeks upon months, months upon _years _studying the layout of the land of and those farther from here. I'm not so indulgently precocious that I would bring you here, so far from civilization, in order just to gloat. Why must you think so little of me? Mi corazón pobre sufre de tus sospechas."

"Nothing of the sort, dearest sister."

"Of course not." There is another laugh, but the lightness within it is dimmer. "Pretty little Lena always has so many pretty words to say, my heart feels so much joy just hearing them." Reina's words are steady, as if they were still walking along the plaza below them. Novinha can feel her own breathing becoming shallower, the rise in elevation beginning to take its effect. She had never been the strongest of nations physically, and it seemed unlikely that Reina had chosen this place without that in mind.

Still, they continue on.

"But why," she has to stop to take a breath, and finds that she is relying upon her sister's strength to continue her ascent more than she would like. "Why here?"

Reina lets out a patient sigh, as if dealing with the willing fully dense, and continues bearing more of the other's weight, feeling quite pleased that they were coming nearer and nearer to their destined summit. "It's a present for you, little sister. It has to be here because it wouldn't mean as much somewhere else. Don't you trust me?"

It's clear that whatever this is, it is amusing Reina to no end, and even if she isn't laughing Novinha can still feel the joy emanating from the older woman. She knew that she had a good reason to fear whatever would become of this, but the press of her sister's fingers against her waist and the warmth of Reina's body beside her has calmed her all the same. It was a foolish, _unnatural _feeling, but she still felt it.

_It wasn't fair._

They're quiet for a while, and as their ascent continues, Portugal feels more and more like they're ascending some sort of stairway towards the heavens. Her dress feels heavy and uncomfortably warm, and Reina's arm prevents her from being able to turn to look behind them, to see how far they have come. She can only move forward, and ignore the dried blood as best as possible. At least it is not fresh: she never had the stomach for violence, nor for gore.

"Can you imagine, little sister, the things that were done here when I first arrive?" Reina's tone is calm, though there is hint of cheerfulness that Novinha doesn't think the question warrants. "Would you like to know, little sister?" Novinha doesn't answer, and Reina takes the submissive silence as the consent that it is. "Very well."

"This grand monstrosity that we walk upon, my dear, it was their main temple. A pyramid, you could say, like the ones that that blasphemous whore had in the desert." At this, Reina's smile flickers for a second, but for why Novinha does not understand. The other continues. "This place, of stone and of earth, they used it to please their Gods, since they are not of the true faith." Novinha almost nods at this, and silently scolds herself for such malicious thoughts.

"And how they made their deities happy, do you know? Why, they told their creator just how much they loved him by cutting out the hearts of their fellow man, of course." Reina doesn't look downward, but she can feel Novinha's body stiffen. "They brought them all up here, escorted by guards, and those men came back down with their heads lopped off, and their bodies falling afterwards. A little crude, don't you think?"

There is silence for a moment, then a feeble sentence makes itself known. "That's not true."

"Where you here, little sister?" There is no annoyance in her voice, it carrying the patient gentleness of a governess correcting a pupil. "And don't look so upset, it's not like they could have done better. Had they understood the world as the Church would have taught them, I doubt things would have been the same. I don't hold it against them that they did it."

'_But that didn't stop you from killing them.' _But Novinha won't say that out loud. Even if she was not so far away from brother and home, she would not dare.

"No, I don't hold it against them at all. This whole walkway was thick and rich with blood and gore, everyday, but they couldn't help themselves. At least they were honest."

"Honest?" Novinha doesn't stop the question, since her sister's words seem so out of place. "How would any of that be honest?"

"I'm not saying that I liked it, little sister. Violence is such a terrible byproduct of humanity, and each one of those people were as hell bound as the rest. What I mean is, little sister, is that at least they were honest with _themselves_. They were savages, and they acted as such. None of them attempted airs as if they were better than what they really were, do you understand that?"

Her tone is neither cruel nor amused, but it still unnerves Novinha. It unnerves her in a way that she doesn't want to admit, and wouldn't divulge to her brother later on. Honesty. Honest.

'_Lena always has so many pretty words to say..'_

'_Always.'_

Novinha represses a shiver. Reina, for her part, waits to hear a rebuttal, but hears nothing. Content, they continue on.

There's a few flashes of steel at the top of the pyramid, and Reina feels the corners of her mouth move from its thoughtful position into a smirk. It was almost time. "Little _Madalena_," her voice is now saccharinely sweet, meant more to use against animals kept as pets than for people. Novinha doesn't answer, but her eyes are aim towards her sister. Reina knows she has the other's attention.

"Do you know one of the things that I love about you, hermanita? One of the things I _love _to _love_ about my little Madalena?"

Portugal is silent, and she longs to wring her hands together. Instead, she settles for just allowing the other to continue. It was clear that there was a point that Reina dearly wanted to make.

"It's simple really, though I'm not sure if you will understand it." They're only about a 50 steps away from the summit, and Reina is glad that the plateau at the top is large enough to prevent people ascending the stairway to see onto it until they were already there. "What I love, what I truly find _endearing_," she fixes her gaze upon the younger, "is how much people love you, _Novinha_." Whatever warmth that had been in her voice seemed to dissipate at the use of Portugal's given name, the one that their father had bestowed upon her all of those centuries ago.

Quick to sense the anger hovering below her sister's words, Novinha's repose in swift. "There are many who love you as well, Irmã. And both brother and I love you dearly."

"You're missing the point, little one." Novinha's kind words are brushed aside as the given niceties that they were. "Besides, it is not so much _that _they love you, but _why _they love you. Do you know, Novinha?"

She doesn't wait for a response, because they are drawing too near to the summit to lose time. "Because little Novinha is _so kind_, and little Novinha is _so good_. They love you. Nations, humans, even your precious little _England_. They all love you because of how good little Novinha is, how pure she is…_compared to the rest of us_."

Portugal feels herself involuntarily blanching at the comment, but tries not to let it show on her face. "_'Goodness' _is a relative term, Reina. You yourself are seen as a pillar of purity, the champion of our church and faith. Your goodness is seen-"

"As inferior to your own, I know: don't lecture to me." Her smile is still there, but its wearing taunting across her face. "But don't get me wrong, I think it is wonderful. Why wouldn't I be proud, of the goodness that my little sister so naturally exudes? If anything," They're less than 15 steps away from the top, and Reina fights the urge to roll her crucifix between her fingers, "it would be something that I would like to encourage within you. Why wouldn't I want you to be pure?"

Novinha's steps slow, the need to wrest herself away from her sister growing almost unbearably strong, but they're already at the top, and Reina has no intention of letting go. "In fact, that is what I wanted to give to you, my closest, and _dearest _person to my heart. I wanted to give you a chance to remind the world of how good of a person you are, and how strong your resolve is."

Confusion makes is way across her face for a split second before Reina guides her sister over the edge towards the crest of the stairway, but as she pulls the younger woman along it quickly falls from her face. The wave of half-formed panic is lovely to see upon her sister's young, wholesome face, and she relished the slight tremor that passes across Novinha's body.

The girl is terribly predictable. It's what makes her and Francis so fun to play with.

There are half a dozen guards here, but Reina already knew that it would be overkill: the children aren't nearly old enough to pose any threats to each other, let alone to an adult. Let alone to _herself_. It takes the younger woman half a second to see that there are what appears to be almost half a dozen children clustered together, most of them looking hardly older than toddlers though one looked like it was brushing upon the edge of adolescence.

Most of them were sitting huddled together, the largest one kneeling as she held a child in her arms as the rest formed a rough semi-circle around her. They didn't look like they had been hurt, or at least not yet, though judging by the way that two of the young girls clung to the hem of the oldest one's skirt was clear enough of an indicator that most of these children were terrified. A few of them look up over at her and her sister, though the oldest one kept her back towards them.

"Novinha." Reina speaks directly into her sister's ear, not given her the space that she would need to try and process the situation in front of her. "My darling Novinha, you remember our treaty, don't you?" Her words are not terribly specific, but given the situation there is only one option that really fits.

"O Tratado de Tordesilhas." The words come out thickly, like a lump that had been stuck in her throat. "Para ti, Tordesillas, am I not right?" Novinha doesn't bother looking at Reina, keeping her eyes focused on the children. She found she couldn't have looked away even if she tried.

"Ah, yes, little sister. Tordesillas is what I have in mind. Our darling little servant of the Church gave both of us the most _generous _offerings for our peace, did she not?"

And she did, and Portugal had regretted signing the treaty from before the ink had been dried. The Holy See may have had the best intentions in her decisions, but Novinha knew from the beginning that Reina would still get what she had wanted in the end. And she did.

"And as to that," Reina releases her hold upon her sister's waist, rising her arm up to wrap around the younger's shoulders instead in an almost friendly gesture, "you do realize where the boundary is between our new lands, where yours end and mine begin?"

"Yes." The word comes out in a breathless whisper, Reina's fingers, brushing against her neck with mock gentleness. "I know where."

"Good." She pushes the younger woman away, stepping aside as she surveyed the frightened children before her. "So you can recognize that all of these children," she tilts her head at the side note, "who are _not _children, them and their lands in the far south all belong to me, is that not correct?"

Portugal doesn't answer, and while there is only one way to respond to that question within the restraints of her laws, she can't bring herself to say it.

"And as such, they belong to me and only me, and will be used, or disposed of, as I see fit. Do you recognize this too?"

Still, there is no answer. Novinha's hands are joined together in front of her, her knuckles white with tension.

"Because of course," she continues circling around the children, and Portugal can hear that one of the girls has started to cry, "were you not to recognize these facts, my dearest little sister, you would be doing more than just sullying that silly piece of paper we signed all of those years ago."

She stops in front of the girl holding the baby, and bends her knees down so she is squatting next to her. In turn, the child bows her head even further, shielding the small child in her arms with her pitifully thin body. Without warning, Reina snaps her arm out at the girl, her hand forcing the girl's chin up without any pretenses of gentleness.

To the girl's credit, she doesn't not start to cry. Instead, she just pulls the child closer into the feeble protection of her arms.

"If you don't recognize these truths, little Novinha," Reina's eyes flick back at her sister, and they hold an obscene kind of heat within them, "you would be declaring war against me. And I could assure you, that if you did, the fates of a couple of savage nations would be the least of your problems."

"Besides," her fingers tighten along the girls chin, and Reina forces her to look at Portugal, "does it look like any of them need to be saved? Why do you think I will hurt them?" The false innocence in her voice is replusive, the lie coming out as easily as any prayer. One of her fingers curl along the girls cheek, lovingly stroking it as the child shudders underneath the touch. Reina smiles, the warmth still in her face, and shoves the girl away. She straightens herself back up to standing position.

The older woman tilts her head to the side for a second, as if a new thought had come to her. "And it wouldn't just be yours, pure little Novinha." Her lips curl into a sneer. "Your little England would just _love_ to find a new way to hurt me, wouldn't he? Couple that with the thought of protecting the lady he so _pathetically loves_, I can be assured that it would be most entertaining on that front."

"And, of course, brother Francis would be in _such _a difficult position, having to find out which side could benefit him the most. I'm sure it would break his little heart, having to chose between his remaining lot and the feral horror that he raised."

Her footsteps continue on, bringing her back towards the start of her journey and back towards her sister. She's only a pace away from the Portuguese nation now, and she can see the impotent and helpless hate shining darkly from her eyes. "Don't look so upset, little sister, do you think I just brought you here to make you cry?" Reina's arm latches onto Novinha's for a moment, and instead of cruelly crushing her sister's weaker flesh she just gives it a gentle squeeze. The warmth is back in her face, and she makes Novinha want to weep.

"Just wait a second, Novinha. Teniente!" Reina calls out to one of her men standing near the doorframe of the small hut that Novinha can only assume served as a part of the temple when these people, whomever they were, still existed. The man nods his head and ducks through the doorframe, disappearing into the darkness as Reina makes her way towards them.

With this break, Novinha looks over towards the children: a pointed few are still looking at her, but most hide their faces against the folds of the dress of the oldest one. The girl herself still refused to raise her face, though there was a tenseness in her shoulders that revealed that perhaps she knew far too well how this day would be ending for most of them.

For her part, Portugal just stands there, helpless to make a decision without seeing what would be Reina's next move.

In a few moments, the man ducks back from the door frame, and in his arms Novinha can see a small bundle held with care. He stops when Reina walks towards him, but instead of taking it from his arms she just waves him away, and he moves on towards Novinha instead. How much of this conversation between the two nations this man understands she is not sure, but when he stands before her, bowing as best as he can with his charge in his arms, she catches his eyes for a brief moment. There is a quiet, wordless kind of guilt shining dully in them, and when presents her with the bundle she can see a look of confused shame upon his face.

Silently, she receives this 'gift', and when it shifts in her arms she finally understands the second part of her choice.

"Look at him." There is no politeness or niceties attached to her words, yet nor is there intended cruelty in the order. Nonetheless, Novinha finds herself cradling the bundle against her arm and her chest, and is not surprised to see the small dark face peering out at her as she moved the blankets aside.

"All of these children," Reina extends her arm out into an arc, sweeping across the air above the heads of the children before her, "all of them belong to me. They can hardly be called nations yet, and I am within my rights do to with them as I please. You know that. I know that. The _world _knows that." Her arms drops to her side, and she gives the shifting bundle in her sister's arms a passing glance. "That one, on the other hand, is not mine. He's yours, if you will take him. Perhaps you should consider yourself lucky, sister, that we drew the lines on the map where we did."

Novinha still hasn't spoken yet, and as the child in her arms attempts to free his arm from his blanketed confines, she unconsciously pulls him closer towards her. She's biting her lower lip, and barely registers when she feels the skin breaking. Eventually, she has to raise her eyes, and when she does she sees Reina watching her.

_Waiting for her._

"Why did you bring me here, if you already knew what I path I would have to choose?"

A smirk alights itself upon the elder's face, and Novinha isn't sure if it's relief that she feels when she notices it is one of the few genuine expressions that Reina has used all day. "I couldn't possibly have guessed what path you would choose, little Novinha. All I know is that you're such a good, _pure _young woman, my dear. And it's in that, that I can assume that I'll never quite know what you may do, since I can never quite tell when you're about to do something _incredibly _stupid. But I have a guess, oh yes. I hope you don't mind, as it is."

"Of course not." Novinha backs up a bit, wondering where the rest of Reina's honor guard was and whether or not one was standing behind her, waiting for a word from his mistress to end her life.

"My darling sister, all I have tried to do today was give you an opportunity to prove to yourself - and of course, a little bit to me - if you are as pure and good as everyone thinks that you are, as they all love you for being." She raises her hands up, and lets them fall back down again, her shoulder's shrugging carelessly. "I wanted to see, that given a choice, just which path of righteousness you would follow. It's not an easy choice, I admit it, but don't be too hard on yourself: it is not like I expected much."

With that, Reina turns her back on her sister, and gradually waltzes up towards the children cowering together.

"And what do you expect me to do? As if I'm ever going to get back to Lisboa alive, all you did was bring me out on a trap..."

"Hmm. No, I didn't, my dear." Reina's back is still turned towards her, but her voice still carries clearly. "Regardless of any decision you would have made, you would have been granted safe and comfortable passage back to Europe. I promised you that before we left, and I never planned on reneging on that. Of course, the repercussions of any decision that you made here would still occur, but only after we returned home. You have always had the free will to do as you pleased."

"You would just let me go, to walk off with your spoils through your own terrain?" Novinha scoffs, her anger coloring her words sharply. "Some may think that you're mad, Reina, but I've never thought that you were stupid."

"And some may think that you're good, little Novinha, but I've never thought that you were pure."

The comment stings a little more than she should have let it, and she finds herself back on defensive ground.

"What do you expect me to do, Reina?"

"Expect?" The laugh that comes out of the elder's throat is short and dry, but the amusement still hung darkly within it. "I expect just about one thing from all of this, little sister."

"And what is that?"

"I expect you to walk away." It's a straight, direct answer, and is somehow the worst part of everything that had come to pass in the last hour. "I expect you to take your share, to turn around, and to walk away. For good." Reina arms fold in front of her as she watches her sister, quiet calculation burning coldly in her eyes. "Because if little Novinha is a good girl and does what she promised in the treaty, I can assure her that I will honor my half of it, and I will never go near her new," she pauses for a moment, looking for a word that would suit the child and finding little, "_ward. _The boy will be safe and sound, and we can both go about our lives as we have in the time before."

"And if I don't?"

"Little sister, I didn't realize that you wanted to die that badly." Novinha maintains eye contact, and eventually Reina continues on. "If little Novinha did not honor her end, I can assure her that not only will she eventually die because of it, but she will undoubtedly drag our brother and little England into our squabble as well."

Reina shrugs. "For Francis, I can hardly say how his end will turn out, but I can be quite certain that little England would die." She smiles warmly, the warmth never reaching her eyes. "Besides, if I wasn't the one to finish him off, I'm sure old little Scotland would gladly rise to the occasion." She giggles for a second. "And don't think that he would stay out of it for your sake, little sister: Scotland has never cared a wit about your goodness. Besides, he doesn't care for small women." Her lips curl in a smirk. "Just ask little Ireland."

"And of course, all of the children would die, including the little one you now hold in your arms. You do understand that, don't you? Unfortunate, but necessary."

As if realizing that he had been called into the conversation, the child begins to shift himself again, his small form attempting to wriggle himself free from the confines of his blankets. In response, Novinha jus draws him nearer, as if she could shield him from the woman before her.

"So…what are we to do now, little Novinha? It has been so wonderful sharing your company, but I fear we have business to attend to."

A heavy breath escapes from Portugal's chest, and there is a hitch to it that she wishes she could have hid. "So, just so we're clear, my _dear elder sister_, I have two options left to me. A: I can reject your claim, and once we return back to Europe, by which time you could have already slaughtered these children, we could engage in a bloody war that will eventually encompass all of our neighbors, costing thousands upon thousands of lives lost."

"Or…"

Novinha's eyes move downward. "Or B…where I leave, with this boy, and there is no war."

"As odd as it sounds, it seems like the logica-"

"No war in Europe that is." Novinha continues, determined to have her say at least once. "Instead, you'll be too busy to wage war against me when you'd rather be slaughtering more of the helpless natives here, and," she nods towards the children, "removing any chance of an opposition power against you, leaving you to rule over this continent without peer. Not 10's, but 100's upon 100's of thousands of lives lost. Is that not correct?"

Reina makes no immediate noise to answer. In fact, she's glad that Novinha has spoken: she wanted to be sure that the younger knew just what was at stake when she made up her mind.

There's nothing for a while, and the silence holds for many minutes, until a sob finally breaks it. Reina says nothing, waiting for the other to continue.

"Goddamn you." Her stance is still straight and firm, but there are tear tracks steadily making their way down her unpainted face and Portugal slowly lost the fight to maintain her composure. "Goddamn you."

The barest of shrugs is the only answer she receives, and another sob wracks her body before she can help it. "Goddamn you, you crazy, heartless bitch."

"Damn me all you want, little sister." Reina's stance is relaxed, and she doesn't feel the need to add the extra edge to her words, the younger woman already in a weakened state. "you still need to walk down those steps alone."

"Goddamn you. Goddamn you. _Goddamn you_." It's becoming somewhat of a mantra for her, and while the child struggles in her arms and tears run down her cheeks, she can't stop herself from saying it. She's backing away with each word that she says, hating herself with a loathing stronger than even that for her sister, and the tears won't stop falling.

"And this goes without saying, my dear, that this will stay between us." One of her hands is gently rolling her crucifix between her fingers, the silver chain reflecting sparkles of light that had no business up here on a day such as this. "No one has to know the decision that you made, so no one has to care." The words are oddly soft, and there is no venom laced deceptively within them.

"No one has to know what you walked away from here. Well, expect for you, myself, and," she jerks her head to the side, "_present company._ No one has to know what you decided to give up, but us. Is that alright with you?"

"Goddamn you."

"I'll take that as a 'yes'." Reina turns away from her sibling, and let the other retreat without having to be watched. "It will just stay between us girls, and if anyone ever finds out, all that you will have to say is that you were manipulated by a cruel woman who was using the system against you. No one will ever need to think less of you."

'_But I'll know.' _

_And those are words that Reina will not say, for she knows that Novinha will be saying them for her. 'I'll know, and she'll know, and someday, when peace is more than just a break in between bloodshed, everyone will know. They'll all know that it was easier to run away than to stand, easier to hide behind a unfit law rather than to fight. And no one will blame her, because poor little Novinha can't help but do what big sister tells her to do._

_No one will blame her, but they'll _**know**_**. **_

"Just try to be honest, if not with me, with yourself from now on, ok?"

"I hate you. Goddamn you, I hate you."

"It's only natural that you do. Go on. Europe's waiting for you. _England_'s waiting for you." She looks back at her sister.

"_Deja, y ser perdonados."_

She is still crying, but she nods, and she can't help it but she does anyways. Without another look, she turns away, crushing the boy gently against her chest as she made her way back down, desperately trying to make as much space between the two of them as she made her way back down the stairs. She won't look back, and in the months and years that will follow, she will do her best to erase those young, frightened faces from her memories.

She'll try, but she'll never be free.

* * *

**Historical Notes: **Spanish Conquest of the Aztec Empire, in 1521, sieged both the grand capital of Tenochtitlan, and also succeeded in essentially wiping out the entirety of the Aztec population, all for the glory and convenience of the Spanish Empire [bias, what bias?]. Most of the city was eventually demolished by the conquering Conquistadors, though there are some ruins (including the Temple of the Sun, which was described here) outside of present day Mexico City. This was the flagship victory for colonizing [and conquering] the New World [you know, the one that already had people in it].

The Treaty of Tordesillas, signed between Portugal and Spain in 1494, effectively divided the New World in half, courtesy of the Vatican: land west of the 37 Western Longitude were to belong to the Spanish Empire, and lands East were open to the Portuguese [which is why Brazil is the only major Portuguese colony in the Americas, yet there are several other colonies farther east].

Also, 'Pobre Catalina' is actually the poor Catherine of Aragon, the Spanish princess (daughter of Queen Isabella and King Fernando, the patrons of Columbus) and the unfortunate first wife of King Henry the VIII of England. Essentially, she was his adored wife until he felt she could no longer give him a son (which he craved, since women were seen as incapable of ruling), and when he found a young tart who particularly struck his fancy [bias?], he had Catherine cast out from court, stripped her of her titles and privileges (and those of their daughter, Mary, as well), and left her to grow ill and perish in an impoverished castle rotting in a corner of his kingdom. Her mistreatment outraged the Spanish Crown and the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V, her nephew.

King Henry the VIII also removed the Catholic Church's (and the Pope's) power within England, and strengthened the treasury by seizing property that had been held by the Church. Why? The Pope wouldn't let him divorce Catherine, since her nephew, the Holy Roman Emperor who held a chokehold on the Vatican, would not allow it. So, he started the Anglican Church, headed it himself, and in a shocking move, granted himself the divorce [what selflessness!].

我討厭那個傢伙。去他媽的一隻鴨子，亨利。

Of course, the conquest and colonization of the New World by the Spanish and the Catholic Church wasn't a walk in the roses either. The Church is...the church, and the Spanish Empire was..._'from the people that brought you the Inquisition, comes..._', well you get the idea.

In the name of God, such cruelties have been committed.

**Author's Notes:** Obviously, the child that Portugal is allowed to keep is the youngster Brazil. However, the ones that Reina currently has 'collected' are actually South American, since the ones in Central America (the existing empires) are currently being eradicated in the name of Spain. There aren't any Central American nations being fought over [here], since Portugal would have less of a legal/moral right to fight, as opposed to the nations that border her lands in the southern continent.

¿De quién hablas? - Who are you talking about?  
Mi pequeña querida - My little darling.  
Mi corazón pobre sufre de tus sospechas. - My poor heart suffers from your suspicions.  
Teniente - Lieutenant  
Deja, y ser perdonados. - Leave, and be forgiven  
Imborrable Pecado - Unerasable Sin

Irmã - Sister  
Não - No  
Por que você atormentar-se? - Why do you torment yourself?  
O Tratado de Tordesilhas - Treaty of Tordesillas

**Up Next: **The journey to oblivion continues. Part 3/5, Hindu Kush, 325 BC


	19. Khānevāde

Edit 20100618: Looks like I switched a date. I meant _327 BC_, not 325. Not that anyone noticed, you failed history buffs, you. XP

你们好,你好吗? Part 3 of 4 (or more accurately, 3 of 5). Enjoy.**

* * *

Everlasting Night**

**Title: **Prelude to Conflict**  
Chapter 19: **Khānevāde**  
Characters: **Persia and Aryan**  
Rating: **PG-13**  
Summary: **What is lost is found…

_Hindu Kush, 327 BC_

All around them there is silence, as if the rest of the world has ceased to exist outside the bubble that has seemed to form around them, and for what seems like a lifetime he can't even feel his heart beat. The only sensation he can feel is the cold metal pressing against his neck, the steel old but sharpened with care. It feels like all of the blood in his body has slowly been turned to ice within his veins, freezing him from the inside out. He's watching her, and he can't breathe, and for all that he has become in this life he can't do anything to stop her.

She's watching him, and he waits…

And waits….

And-

Her smirk deepens for a moment before eventually becoming careless, and without a word she withdraws her weapon, bringing the long blade to rest affectionately against one of her broad shoulders. She leans back until she's halfway seated upon an outcropping of rock that sits a few feet above him, keeping her towering over him with her impressive height even at a distance.

There's a knot in his throat that comes up painfully as a breath tries to make its way past his parted lips. He tries to swallow it back, but it still comes out as a dry croak, both a painful and degrading noise to interrupt the silence around them. He just sits there, and it only comes to him later that she could have ended his life at any moment while he had sat there, dumbstruck. Instead, she just watches him, and if her face wasn't as cold as it normally was there could have almost been a flicker of amusement in her dark face.

As is such, she just sniggers at him. "To think, that before we could never get you to shut up; now, you can't even talk. How the times have changed."

The words are dry, edged with a disdain that seems to have been engraved upon them. Her wrist twists lightly, and the blade rolls dangerously along her shoulder, pressing against the exposed flesh without cutting the bare skin. His eyes move from her face towards the blade, and the rolling stops; instead, with a flick of her arm she brings in down in a slashing movement, brining it down between his outstretched legs.

"Pay attention when I'm talking to you, **boy**. I don't have to worry about hurting you anymore, our sister's not here."

"_I know._" It comes out as a hiss, but he couldn't help it, since a sudden rush of steel that almost removed his manhood was apt to make him forget to be submissive to her. Besides, it has been almost 2,000 years since he had cowered under her: he didn't want to go back to those times again, even if it meant…

"Why are you here?"

She smirks, and the metal takes its former place back against her shoulder, like a loyal pet returning to its master's side. "And you're in a position to be asking such trifles? You seem to forget, _child_, that you're all alone out here. Your men will not be coming to save you."

And that's true, but he doubts they could have done much good anyways. It wasn't so much that their training was lacking, but that they would have been hesitant to strike a woman (even one such as herself who barely fit that description), and that would be more than enough of an opening for her to end their lives. No, he was no worse off by himself.

_But she was…_

…_without her guard and…_

…_why?_

The blade halts its revolutions along her shoulder again. "Tch, you really are such a pain. All these years, and you still would like nothing more than to wallow in the dirt. I'm bored just having to look at you." She closes her eyes as she runs a hand through her hair, pulling a few strands free from the leather band that held them back. "What's an idiot like you doing all the way out here anyways?"

'_That's my line.' _But he doesn't say that out loud. One near miss was enough. Instead, he straightens himself up a bit, pulling his arms out in front of him as he draws his legs up, moving himself up towards a crouching position, which was slightly more dignified than his former arrangement. "As if it is any of your concern, I'm just out here with a scouting party. It is not like we are anywhere near your lands, and as such you have no reason to-"

"If you were trespassing on my lands, you would be already dead." Her words are as dry as the crag of rock that she rests against, though he can't help but hear the slight shift in intonation when she says '_my_'. It's a little thing, but it was always the little things with Elaheh. Ownership always meant so much to her.

"So then, why are you here?"

Her face is void of any real expression, even her look of annoyance drops for a few moments. Yet, the that passes, and in the next second her face hardens, and within it emerges a malicious smirk. "Why would business could possibly bring me out here, little bhrātr?"

That's a short list, and none of them spell fortune for him. Nonetheless, an idea comes to mind, born of reckless bravado, and before his brain catches up with his mouth, it comes out in a sneer. "Did you come out here so you could run away from Greece?"

It was a stupid thing to think, and a suicidal thing to say, and he had expected that she would be angry (if not enraged), since she would never admit to running away from anyone, let alone the [weak] philosopher empire in the west. He hadn't heard any recent new from the far western half of the world, but he doubted that the Greek could have fallen without it reaching this part of the earth.

What he hadn't expected was for her expression to freeze, the muscles in her cheek taunt as her jaw tightened mechanically. Her eyes, which had been burning darkly with malicious warmth, had lost whatever luster of arrogant pride that they had held. There's nothing else, no outburst of emotion or rage: just quiet, frozen shock, with a slight tremor at the corner of her mouth as she just stares at him in disbelief.

Eventually, her mouth opens, but nothing comes out of it. It closes with a snap, and he can hear her teeth as they begin to grind together. Her hand that had been closed around her sword tightens before twisting, and she brings it down, impaling it into the earth between her feet.

Still, there is silence, and whatever he had been meaning to say becomes nothingness as he watches the strange transformation on his sister's face. What could have been a tremor runs through her hands, both of which are tightly clasped around the hilt of her weapon. His eyes move up and catch a glimpse of what looked like a ripple moving across her face, and then her eyes burn coldly. The words come out in a strangled hiss.

"And what do you know of _Greece_?"

It's his turn to be quiet, and he doesn't quite understand what she means by the question. "Greece, the Greek Empire. A man. Your enemy. The one you're fighting for as long as you can remember." He shrugs his shoulders in confusion. "What else is there to say of him?"

She says nothing, and after a long, calculated look, her expression breaks its stillness. She rolls her shoulders, arching her back as well and he can hear the crack of her spine as her joints resettle. "And there is nothing new to add to that?" It's an offhand question, spoken carelessly, but judging from her prior question, it seems impossibly important.

"No. Nothing else. What does he matter out here anyways? I have no fight with him."

Her smirk is back, but instead of the old, cocky one that she had been using, this one seemed devoid of even her dark humor. "And what would make you think that you would have a say in the issue?"

At this, she stands up, rising with a fluid grace that was unexpected from a frame as massive as her own. "If that is all that you know, I suppose that is all that you _need_ to know." She scoffs. "It's as if this part of the world really is forsaken, for not even the truth will come here."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" He find himself getting angry at her again, and while he knows it's a hazard to his health he finds himself rising to his feet, refusing to allow her to tower over him. She's still taller than him, almost by half a head, but he's not a child anymore.

He can't let her terrorize him, not if he is to be to one protecting Sayara and their people.

"Nothing, little bhrātr. Nothing at all. It's just fitting that you would run to the end of the world to hide from me, and all the good that it did for you. Nothing more." With this, she turns, and as unexpected as her arrival had been, this is equally surprising, watching her walk away. At the very least, he expected some sort of threat from her, perhaps to press farther south or something else in that regard. Since he had left her kingdom almost 2,000 years ago, there hadn't been any contact between the two of them, familial or otherwise.

Besides, it wasn't like her to avoid confrontation when she could find it.

It just didn't feel right…

She's about 20 paces away along the hilltop before she pauses. "By the way, bhrātr," she brings her sword up against her arm, letting it lay in a standard military hold, "you aren't missing anything, are you?"

Innocent enough of a question, on the surface; so innocent in fact that he almost thinks that she is asking if he misses 'home' [or perhaps their older sister] before the implications hit their mark.

'_Are you-'_

'_-__**missing **__anything?'_

Because what could Amar be missing that would be of any concern to the mighty Persian Empire?

Nothing, nothing at all.

Not a goddamn thing that she could know about, except…

"Because I just happened to find something, not too long ago…"

He feels himself biting down on his lip, his teeth piercing through the dried skin with ease as the key connection was made.

It's not what _he _is missing, but…what _India _was missing.

And what was she missing? What was she grieving over that made it impossible to return to the home he had made with her?

'_No…'_

'_Please, no…'_

"You've really been pretty careless, you know that? When you make something run away, you never quite know where it'll end up."

"What did you do to him?" The words coming out mechanically, his mind trapped within the cycle of his thoughts. _'Please, whatever gods exist in this land, please don't let anything have happened to the boy. Don't let him be hurt, please don't let him be dead.'_

'_Don't make it so that I can never return to her again…'_

She raises a dark eyebrow at him, amusement held at bay within her voice. "Whatever could you mean? I'm not sure what you're talking about…"

'_As if you don't, you callous bitch.'_

Finally, he decides he doesn't have a choice: he takes her bait. "What have you done with the boy?"

Her lips curl back into their familiar smirk, and he finds an equally familiar feeling of bile rising in his throat at the sight. "Nothing. Nothing at all. We haven't done anything to him that would cause alarm. In fact, Alex-" her smirk drops off her face as she halts her sentence, anger flushing dully back into her face without warning. She takes a moment to collect herself before continuing. "No harm has come to the boy. He should be the least of your troubles."

"You don't have any right to keep him." His voice is becoming more insistent as he steps forward, closing the distance between them with a loathsome need. "You don't have any-"

"Shut up." Her weapon's back at her side, the tip hovering threateningly over the ground. "I wasn't the one to find him, nor am I the one who is holding him." She points the tip up at him, letting the threat hang silently in the air. "And you will not take him from whom he is with now."

"And who would that be, if not you?"

The coldness is back in her eyes, and she sheathes her sword with reluctant motions. "You will know soon enough. Consider this all the warning that the two of you will get. We'll be back before the end of the year." With that she turns, and continues her withdrawal from him.

"Wait, what's this '_we_' you're talking about?" He chortles a bit, and again it seems that his bravado continues its mad attempt at pushing itself to the surface and shortening his life. It's not so much about his honor, but the one depending on him.

"What, are you and big sister finally trying to take me out for good?" He finishes is with a laugh, and while she pauses in step, she does not turn around.

"No. She is not a part of this. This alliance…it is strictly professional." Each word comes out at an even pace, as if the words were alien upon her tongue. "His only wish is to spread civilization to the world, and mine is to wipe out your savage breed once and for all."

She looks back at him, and for once there's neither hate nor malice in her face. "Killing your dam is inconsequential, but necessary."

"Leave her alone." His voice is barely above a whisper, the blood frigid around his heart. "She's never done anything to any of you."

"And what would that matter? According to the boy, the two of you are essentially one and the same. What point would there be in killing one and letting the other live? Even Alexandros agrees." She hardly even notices when she lets that taboo word slip out from between her lips.

And he doesn't, though her brother doesn't need to know that. Nor was that what the child had said, the frightened boy who had begged them to help free his mistress.

But that didn't matter.

_

* * *

Months Before_

The boy may have pleaded for the Indian woman's cause, but it was clear that he was fixated upon the foreign woman, and anything he said was subject to doubt. What the girl had said, however, had been much more agreeable to Persia's ears. Let Greece talk with the agonized boy all he wanted, it was the youngest child who had held her attention.

The girl, whom the boy had found after he had fled what had once been his home, had far fewer kind things to say about the Indian woman, and was far more earnest in her words than the boy could ever have been. Persia knew from the instant she had seen her that she would make use of this child.

'_They're the same, you know. Where ever he goes, he keeps her near to him. He _**confines**_ in her.' The girl had spoken in hushed whispers, her tiny form swaddled in a tattered shawl that may have been new a century ago. 'There is nothing that he does that she doesn't know of.' _

_She looked over at the boy, whose bare, trembling shoulders Alexandros was draping his own cloak over. There was a flicker of fondness in her eyes that disappears when they move back towards Persia, and if what she's saying is a lie, the woman doesn't care. _

'_They're making themselves one and the same. Both themselves and their people. This, they have already done.' And that will be all of the confirmation that Persia will need to steel her resolve in killing not only her brother, but his mate._

_It was the least she could do, with her sister growing weaker by the day, a dull ache that dragged at her mind deeper and deeper with each passing year._

_Persia would die to ensure that their brother and his kind would be wiped off the face of the earth before Kemet ever fell._

_

* * *

Present_

"Leave her alone." There's a catch in his throat this time, his feet bringing him closer to her, almost tripping over each other as he tried to close the distance. "Please, you don't have to, just leave her alone."

"If you cry, do you think I will listen to you? Why don't you leave, and just start getting ready to-"

"_PLEASE!" _He all but runs the final steps between them, his arms drawing themselves around her with a desperate need. He forgets for a while that he wasn't still a child, or that she still didn't love him anymore. _"Please, just leave her alone, please, I'll fight you, and you may kill me, but you can't hurt her, just-"_

It takes a jerk of her arm to partially unsheathe her sword, and a slight twist of her hip to ram the hilt into his face. The blow drops him to his knees, and before his hand even reaches up towards his face he can feel that his right cheekbone had been shattered, shreds of bone swimming under the flesh. His fingers move over it, feeling the drops of blood welling up over his eye with a clinical sort of disinterest.

He doesn't look up at her, as if it had finally brought him back to the present, where he was a man and they weren't family anymore.

"Don't you ever beg." She's facing away from him, but he can hear in her strained voice the wealth of disgust that she had always seemed to aim at him in their final years together. Her face is twisted into a sickened grimace, as if the contact had made her physically sick. "Don't you ever beg to me again."

She re-sheathes her sword, letting her fingers rest against the hilt for a few moments longer. "You know, I don't think I'll mind having my people kneel to his king if it means that he will help me destroy you."

Who that man is, she never clarifies, and with that she makes her leave, this time uninterrupted. He remains on his knees for a while longer, feeling the crushed bone underneath his fingertips as blood slowly makes its way down his face as he waits for her to be gone. He doesn't want to see her again. He doesn't think he will be able to handle looking at her again, the be reminded of the world that they now lived in.

He waits, and then he waits.

The world moves on around him.

It is full dark before he returns to camp, his mount as dispirited as himself. He makes no attempt at a cover to his men, whose worried questions are ignored as he merely orders them to break camp so they can leave for their home base within the hour. Confused, they comply, and he's too far gone in his thoughts to be grateful for their loyalty. All too soon, they are on their way, returning to the place where he had been forbidden from returning to centuries before.

It doesn't matter if he's returning without the boy.

There is too much to prepare, and not enough time for it.

There never has been, and never will be.

Still, he must try.

_'I have to protect her.'  
_

**

* * *

Historical Notes: **Continuation of the Greco-Persian Invasion of the Indian Subcontinent in the 4th century BC. You read the first two, you should know what's going on [what a pitiful excuse for historical notes!]. Also, while the Greek and Persian Empires had been enemies for years, the Greeks had much less conflict with the fragmented Indian Kingdoms, due to no small part in the geographical difference in locations. The Persians, whom shared a common ancestry with the Aryan invaders who crossed the Hindu Kush [divider between Central Asia and the Indian Subcontinent] thousands of years earlier, were not nearly as isolated from conflict from their Southeastern neighbors. The Greeks saw India as the end of the [known] world, and the Persians were less romantic with their views.

**Author's Notes: **So, as you can see, the Macedonian King of the Greek Empire is making his way into the Hindu Kush, the gateway into India. As expected, gentle discourse between the siblings, and promises for a peaceful future ensue. Persia maintains her usual regard for other races by again referring to India as an animal ('dam' is a female mate, not a word normally used to humans).

In addition, the glorious primary introduction of the little future nation of Afghanistan, who is the younger sister of Pakistan. Sheserves as buffer state between Iran and Pakistan [modern times], and she is…_special, _when it comes to India..._  
_

**Persian Empire: **Elaheh Ahura Mazda**  
Greek Empire : **Alexandros Herakleitos**  
Aryan: **Amar [No surname for the disowned brother]**  
Khānevāde**: Romanized Persian for 'family'.

**Up Next: **_And thus, we prepare. _Part 3.5 of 4, Hindu Kush/Delhi, 327 BC


	20. Taiyārī

**20100704: **Paraguay, *sob*. Anyways, still on track for tomorrow. And...

**HAPPY BIRTHDAY AMERICA!**

**20100701: **Technical difficulties mean that chapter 21 comes out next week, not this week. Happy Canada Day to all you crazy Canucks.

Finally breaking into the 20's after 5 months. Wanted to send a quick shout-out to my ever-supportive beta/editor Pretense, and to my two semi-constant reviewers, Moonlight Melody and JD-09. Even if we don't make it to review 50, the 3rd marker, thanks: it was nice to have some company along the way. Also, it was fun writing your one-shot [JD-09's; MM's taking her time making up her mind. ~_^].

In addition, I finally finished updating chapter 3, Meç Eġṙen. You may have read it before, but it took a lot of effort, so why not take another look at it? At this point, 1, 3, and 7 are revamped without beta approval, plus all the little edits I do along the way. Now, on to the show. Part 3.5 of 4.

* * *

**Everlasting Night**

**Title: **Prelude to Conflict  
**Chapter 20: **Taiyārī  
**Characters: **Ancient Greece and Persia, Aryan and India  
**Rating: **PG-13  
**Summary:** Upon the precipice of despair, destiny awaits.

_The Greek Camp at the mouth of the Khyber Pass, Late Fall 327 BC_

An impatient hand brushes aside the heavy woolen hangings that shield the tent's occupants from the winds that have begun to bluster outside. There were some flurries of snow intermixed with the winds, and at the sight of them her jaw tightens.

As the year was nearing its end, it was becoming increasingly apparent that if they did not move his ['_their'_] troops through the pass within the next week, the valley would be unnavigable once the snows began in earnest. Already, some of the scouts who had been sent along had reported steady snowfall along the eastern half of the mountains, and unless the Macedon's heart was truly set upon starting the siege of the subcontinent in the next year, they were going to have to hurry.

All of this was incredibly apparent to Persia.

What was not apparent, however, was how long it would take for Aléxandros to wrap it around his delicate mind that the full force of his army would be needed during the campaign. Already, it had been a fruitless week, the discourse split between the faction who wanted to press on with the full force of the combined armies, an idea espoused by herself, and the one who protested that it was due time for a return back to at least Babylon, if not their 'homeland'.

There was a middling group that wanted to partition off the forces, sending only a few squadrons over the mountains while others were sent back home towards Greece (not that they knew what to do with _her _men). They were mainly ignored, and with good reason: seven years into their campaign, there was no room for middle ground.

Not at this point.

"It would take all of two years _at_ _most_ to return here from the homeland. Perhaps even less if we marshaled at Babylon." She was mainly ignoring him, as Aléxandros was again outlining his plan to his ['_their'_] king, who was listening with patient silence. Her nails dig into the heavy fabric, watching as more of the snow began to fall in its lethal gentleness. "We will know the way back to here much better on the return trip, and our supply lines will have both better protection and greater success rates at meeting their posts. That alone will make the conquest much more viable as long as we are willing to wait."

"Perhaps. However," the young king's hands formed a steeple in front of him, his eyes centered upon his fingertips, "Pella is far away from this place, and Babylon, as are the other Persian cities of worth, is distant as well. Do we really expect that we can march the entirety of the army back, _overland_ mind you, across the deserts and steppes and mountains that we have had to pass, all that _and then _time our return back before winter fell?" He looks over at Greece, and if he is impatient he doesn't let it show.

The two seem to work well together. Too bad that won't help Greece now.

"We don't need a forced march back into Pella." Greece steps over to his king, his fingers tracing over the map before him on the table. "If anything, we could divide the army, with our main Macedonian and Greek factions returning to the homeland, and our Persian allies could convene in Babylon." Elaheh's teeth slowly begin to grind together, but she stills the movement before she can be heard.

"Divide the army? Then by all means, why not leave an acting force here to sustain our camp? In the least, we would have early warning should there be a preemptive attack." Greece nods lightly, but it's not to agree. "If we leave any substantial force here, my king, we would run the risk of," he pauses for a moment, and does his best not to look at Persia, "_over-enthusiasm _leading to an ill-prepared assault into the far east. We do not have room for failure in this campaign, nor for an overzealous commander wishing to obtain victory from the barest scraps of hope."

His king acknowledges this too, but Greece can see his doubts remain. The young king looks over at the woman, knowing that she holds ideals similar to his own in this case, if not in others. "My lady." His tone is polite, and he waits until she looks over at him to continue. Unlike with Greece, she is less willing to begrudge her attention to their king.

"In the chance that we did try to marshal our armies in Babylon, or in another one of your royal cities, what would the civilian population's response be to such an increase in a Greek military presence?"

Mulling the question over with more time then needed, she lets go of the cloth that her nails had been digging into, folding her arms over her slight chest as she leaned against one of the wall posts. Her tone is even and unhurried. "There is already enough unrest after the sacking of my Persepolis, and there is much distrust at all levels of the population. To increase your troops in Babylon," she shakes her head before returning her gaze back to him, "further strife could only be assumed. It would be literally _assured_." She adds, as if it was not overly apparent.

"I could not recommend allowing such an action to pass, unless you wish there to be more Persian and Greek blood shed."

Greece frowns at this, but his king seems satisfied with the answer. "Such things I would never wish for, with this alliance so costly and dear to my heart." He looks back at his nation, though his words are still aimed at Persia. "And if we were to have our Persian allies in arms, who have served alongside my own men so diligently and bravely, return to Babylon, how would this affect a reinstituted assault against the Indian kingdoms later on, within a few years time?"

She shakes her head again, and a shadow of a smirk appears at the corner of her mouth. "Any allies you hold now would be halved with such actions. You cannot hope to hold them if you allow such, _unfit guidance _in this instance. If the army is not pressed to continue now, they will not be brought here again so willingly."

"I'm sure they would appreciate a return to their homeland for rest as much as our Greek and Macedonian troops would." Greece interjects, feeling his king's attention drift from him. "So many have been away from their homes for years, we could not only replenish and strengthen our armies, but reestablish the morale and loyalty of our troops."

"And since _when_ has a king had to buy the loyalty of his men?" Persia narrows her eyes at her partner, her words reaching their mark with bitter ease. He can feel his face flush when his king nods approvingly with her stance, and he turns back to his liege in earnestness.

"My king, I have never implied that a reorganization of our armies would imply weakness in any way, of our empire or to your rule. But to lead this attack now, when we have but the barest of days in order to cross the pass, all of this is dallying with disaster. If we are a few days off of our schedule, we run the risk of losing half of our forces in the pass and having no way back before the spring thaws, whenever they may be."

"That is all the more reason for us to make haste into the south, and not to waste time fretting about it."

"We are not _fretting _about this, we are discussing this in council as it should be." He can feel the heat rising along his neck, hating it when she mocked him in front of his own king, and hating it even more so when his king agreed with her. "Had we another month's time, we could at least have a chance at being properly prepared _logistically_ for this invasion."

"Logistics cannot win a war when there is no commitment of force behind it. Besides," she shrugs with feigned indifference, "there are supplies further along the path. Your scouts have reported that much of the land far southeast of the pass is still lush with growth at this point of the year."

"But we aren't for sure that there will be enough to support the full force of our armies." He shakes his head, pushing himself away from the table. "It is too much of a risk with this many men to account for. We cannot hope for success if we rush into this so thoughtlessly."

"And do you think I make this decision lightly?" His king's voice is calm, but Persia is pleased to hear the slight tone of irritation that hinted at the edge of the man's words. The young king moves to stand besides his nation, and Greece can feel the anger underneath the man's calm mien.

"Do you think that I do not understand how to take care of my own army? And what is this, of worrying of group morale?" He sneers at the word, turning away from Greece. "Have I not lead them from our small home in Macedon into both the lands of Egypt and Persian, and have we not been conquerors there?"

He quickly turns to Persia, extending his hand out towards her as he continued. "Have we not found allies within the sons and daughters of Persia, and have they not shown their loyalty and strength _over and over again _as we have crossed the wastelands into the mountains?"

He turns back towards Greece, placing his hands upon the other man's shoulders. "As one nation, did you not conquer half of the known world?" Aléxandros closes his eyes, and his king's hands tighten upon his shoulders. "As one nation, you, _we, _did all of that. As two," Aléxandros' eyes flit towards Persia, and he can see her watching him. There is a cold heat burning within her eyes, fixated upon him with a harsh intensity.

His king can't see it, and only smiles at his nation. "As two, you both will form an empire that will take all of the world. It is your destiny, my nation." His hands move up to cup Greece's face, his next words lovingly gentle. "My splendid empire." With that, he lets go, walking away from Greece with refined steps.

"You will understand in due time. Please know that your faith in me shall not be wasted. Now, if the two of you shall excuse me, I must inform my generals of my decision: we shall leave for the pass by the end of three days." He moves over towards the entrance of the tent, passing by Persia as she maintained her rigid stance. "_My_ _lady_." He nods at her, and with the slightest movement the gesture is returned to him. He smiles, satisfaction hinting in this one that had been absent with the one he gave Greece, and thus departs their company, disappearing into the outside world with a swish of heavy fabric.

With that, they are alone.

"Why do you do this to me?" He slumps down around the table, its top covered with the different maps and stratagems that his generals and king had gone over for hours upon end, trying to find the best to execute this terrible plan. He lets his forehead rest against his palms, feeling the first pangs of a migraine coming onto him. In a few hour, he would be in agony. "Why do you hate me so much as to do this?"

She doesn't bother answering him, let alone moving towards him. As a grown man, he should not need to be comforted because of his own weakness, especially those that he allowed to fester within himself. It would pass, as would the contempt she felt for him growing inside her chest.

It would pass, and she would be able to stand him again.

"Why do you want this so badly?" This question hangs between them, the heavy cloud of his thoughts out into the air. Willing herself patience, she pushes off from the wall, taking a few steps closer to his haggard figure. "Your king wants this. Don't mistake my needs for his desires."

"I know he wants this." He lets out a small hiss of breath, resting his elbows upon the table before him, turning his head upwards towards her. "But the way that you're _encouraging _him_, _it's not helping him think clearly."

"Have you so little faith in your king, that any dissent that he takes to your opinion you feel the need to panic and expect the worst?" She moves over to his side of the table, and leans against the edge of it. Her height, half a hand span taller than his own, makes this a potentially complicated task, but she performs it with a careless ease that came naturally to her. "Besides, he didn't come this far just for you to tell him that he has to go back." Her eyes appraise him disdainfully. "His pride will not allow him to."

'_Will yours?'_

She doesn't ask it out loud, but he can see the question in her eyes. However, pride is not the reason why he does not want to go into India, and she must understand that.

"My faith in him is as unshaken as it was when we first left our home along the Aegean." He sets his hands down, and turns himself to face her. "Yet, my love for him will not allow me to let him lead our people until slaughter. Not for his pride." He stands up, and moves beside her. "And not for yours."

It hits its mark, and her eyes narrow in anger. "You _dare_ think that you know anything." She pushes off to walk away, but his hand glides upward to grasp her arm, his grip soft but unyielding.

"I presume no such things." His fingers gently move in a comforting caress, and the action is less repulsive than it was to her a few years ago. "I only know that you want this very badly, that you _believe_ you need this terribly, and that I do not understand why."

"If my views coincide with your kings, then there is no reason for you to question them."

"When half of my troops comprise of your men, I would very much need to know what it is that you desire." He sighs, and his thumb rubs absently against her arm. "We both have so much at stake with this, I would not risk jeopardizing you or your wishes…but you have to be honest with me."

She scoffs at this, both annoyed and amused. "You know very well what my wishes are. You just wish not to acknowledge them, nor to lend your aid to them."

"Elaheh, _please._ What you are asking me is to invade a land I have never even been to, and to subjugate its people, whom I have never met nor quarreled with. All of this-"

"Your king wants the same, yet you do not question him-"

"-_All of this_," he continues, as if she had not interrupted him, "and you will not even explain to me why you need this." He looks at her, beseeching her while maintaining his dignity. "What could it possibly be that you won't tell me?"

"Why must there always be something with you?" She pushes his hand off of her, and steps away from him. Her arms are back folded against her chest, her dark hair descending down her back in a rough plait. "We have evidence, the men, and the will of your king behind this campaign. Why can't you just devote yourself to this instead of sabotaging it? We have already been here for too long, and within a week we will never be able to make this campaign this year."

"Because I do not understand _why _we are doing this. We," he gestures at both of them, "we had been at war with each other for centuries upon centuries, so my king's assault upon you at least held reason. Precedence. _This_," his hand moves before him, sweeping out across as if it could clarify the issue, "what business do I have in India? What business do _you _have in it? My king has no claim to a fight there, nor do my people will it." He lets his hands fall in front of him, and he can feel his shoulders start to sag with the effort at arguing with her.

"The sun goes there to die and be reborn, Elaheh. Can we not let them live in peace?"

"_Never_." Unlike his words, there is no uncertainty in her voice, nor is it cajoling. "It is the rotted womb of the earth. I will not bear it to be allowed to live."

"Besides," she turns back towards him, "what you call '_peace' _is merely waiting for an enemy to appear, not preventing one from emerging." Her eyes gleam coldly at him, her old anger resurfacing. "Such foolishness borderlines upon weakness…"

"But caution is not weakness. You're basing your argument on evidence that does not exist, and are waging the lives of thousands of our men upon it. _Our men, _not just yours and not just mine." He shakes his head, and a hand raises unbiddenly to his neck.

"You were never like this when I fought you." He speaks softly, his fingers curling inward, and against the indents of his spine one of his fingers traces a path along a faded scar. It had been a souvenir from one of their ancient battles together, and those memories and now seem so disconnected. "Why is this different from then?"

"You do not know these people like I do. You _Greeks_, all you know is the civilized world. Your kings, your people," she scoffs disdainfully, "even your _enemies_ are only those who have created order from chaos, who have risen to greatness. You do not understand how it is to fight those who are less than human. Your mercy will only get you and your army strung up in their streets."

"So why go at all?" The look of disgusted contempt that she gives him with that final comment is unpleasant, though hardly unexpected.

"You know what the girl said. You are only biding your time before they invade, and then whatever peace you had is gone."

He shakes his head in skepticism. "The girl is but a _child_. I see little to gain by pushing the validity of the entire campaign upon the words of a young girl."

"Oh?" She turns back at him, haughty with her challenge. "You say this, yet you're willing the follow the _boy's _words. Such a much better plan than my own, I am sure."

"I am not placing my faith in either of their words, Elaheh. Perhaps one day they will live to be proper nations, but at this point they are only children, and must be treated as such. What I am saying is, that with the two of them contradicting one another, it is further proof that we must show caution in the face of this invasion."

"Even with the truth before you, you would deny it if it allowed you to protect your ideals."

"And you would kill it to sustain your need."

Her narrow face contorts in rage, though her words are level and cold. "I suppose we _savages _cannot help but be what we are. You Greeks must feel so alone in this world, surrounded by those beneath you." She turns away from him. "I'll take my leave, as if it would make a difference to you."

She turns to leave, and her movements are faster than his own, his hand only just outstretched before she had already thrust aside the tent's opening with angry movements, striding out into the faded daylight. He stands there for a moment longer, then pulls it back, letting it run through his hair before following after her.

He has a good idea where she's going, anyways.

He gets way-sided by his men a few times, but it's only for a few minutes. Before a half hour passes, he finally makes his way outside the main heart of the camp, passing by the crude stable yard that served for their horses as he continued on outward. There were only a few men out on guard duty at this point, and the scouts that had been sent out had long since returned: in short, the passage to the pass would be all but desolate, perfect for someone who wanted to be alone.

_And who craved solitude more than her?_

She didn't bother carrying a heavier cloak, and his own was not suited for weather much colder than what was in the brazier-warmed tents. Nonetheless, as he approaches, he finds himself slipping his arms out of his sleeves, easing it off of his shoulders as he didn't break his stride. Even though she's facing into the pass, he knows he's not approaching unnoticed. It's hard to sneak up on her, and it is not like he wants to anyways. Besides, that was not something that one did with allies.

Or with friends.

_Or with…whatever they were._

The sky is bright with its muted light above them, the clouds a blinding white that seemed to drain the color out of the world with its harsh intensity. Snow continues to fall, and he knows that if it does not cease within the next few hours, any chance of making it through the pass in one piece would be lost for another year.

Another year, in order to prepare for a war he did not want, for reasons he did not understand.

But he would try. At least with the second part, he would have to.

He's standing beside her, and without waiting for her he pushes the cloak towards her. "We'll never make it across the pass if you let yourself get sick out here."

Her eyes glance over at him, and if there is anger he doesn't have enough time to see it. She let's out a dry laugh, and while it taunting, it is not forced. "I could last out here longer than you could ever hope to, cloaked or not. Do not assume that your own weaknesses apply to me."

"I'm so sorry, I forget." His lips do their best not to form a smile. "Sometimes when I look at you, I mistake you for my own reflection. Quite a hassle, really, when I forget that I'm not that tall and make a fool of myself." He can't really see her face, but the slight twitch at the edge of her mouth is quite possibly a smile.

"Alas, your humor has yet to improve. You should stick to questioning the ethics of others, since it's all your good at."

"Yet again, I apologize." He still pushes his cloak towards her, and with a weary sigh that seems more indulgent than anything, she takes it from his arm. For a moment, their fingers touch, and then they move away again. She pulls it around her shoulders, and he moves closer to her. For a while, there is silence, and as with the snows it eventually ends.

"Is this truly that important to you?" She doesn't say anything at first, and lets the question roll over in her head a few times before she decides to answer him. He appreciates the action and the thought behind it, even though he knows what she will say.

"Yes." Her words are quiet, but unyielding. "It means everything to me that we do this." He takes her hand into his own, and she lets him. "Together."

He nods in acknowledgement, but he's not done questioning her determination. "And there are two who rule within that land, as the children have told us?" He still doesn't want to put his faith behind the little girl's harsh view of the Indian woman, but it is the boy's words against hers and there is no way to figure out which one is telling the truth until the campaign already reaches the far east, where it will already be too late.

She nods, and he continues on. "What difference is there between the two of them, the woman and the man?"

She's silent for a long minute, and right before he prepares to rephrase his question, she answers. "They are both one and the same. They rule an empire together, their people are of the same blood." She looks over at him, and though her face is calm, her words are harsh with bitter fervor. "They both must be eliminated if you are to hold any hope of conquering the land and its people."

But the boy said otherwise, and that only the woman was of the land and its people. Yes, the boy was young, and yes, he seemed fixated upon the woman, but the tears in his frightened eyes had been honest. The doubts had been eating away at his thoughts, and no matter what his king or what she wanted, he could not be sure.

Still, he could not stand in the way of their combined will and need. And his need for her bound him to her own.

"And there is no other way but to kill them both?" She looks over at him, and seeing the calm unease upon his face, she pulls him slightly closer towards her. She needs him for this, and perhaps…perhaps for something more. …

"If both of them are to be eliminated, then the defeat and submission of their people will be hastened that much faster. We can avoid a full out slaughter as long as we remove their will to fight." Her eyes move away from him, back towards the pass. "After that, you will finally have your peace."

'_And will you?' _Part of him wants to ask that question, but the other half is afraid of the answer. He's afraid that there is no answer for her.

All the more reason to keep her near to him.

_And he would, at any cost…_

His teeth worry his bottom lip, and he stops before he can break the dry skin, letting a sigh out as he felt the chill begin to set into his flesh. "If this is what needs to be done, then we will have to make haste in breaking camp." He looks back at her face, and he can see a slight softening in its expression. It does his heart well to see it.

"And we will have to be in this together, if this is to succeed. Alright?" His fingers rub against the back of her hand, and her cold skin seems to warm slightly under his touch. If they are to do this, they will have to do this, not as the Greek Empire, nor the Persian one, nor even as the individual beings that they were. If this was to have any chance to succeed, they would have to do this as one, with a cohesion that neither of them had experienced before but would have to create in this hour of need.

"Are you with me in this?" Her words are uncharacteristically soft, and he knows his answer even in the face of his fears.

"If you are with me."

She says nothing at that, and she doesn't have to. He' still holding onto her hand, and as long as she lets him, he will not let go. They stand up there, away from their combined armies and men, and listen as their troops begin to break camp and prepare for the invasion.

* * *

_Delhi, Late Fall 327 BC_

It is a few hours before the midnight hour that he finally arrives.

It was a quick, if vacant journey, with a burning need to rush back to her capital urging his mount faster and faster. There were so few men within his party, that they were able to make the trip in almost half the time normally required.

He feared that is was still not enough.

He dismissed his men almost as soon as they entered the outer gate, and after a short diversion to the stables to relieve himself of his steed, he made his way into the palace.

There were no servants waiting for him, nor any formal welcome of any sort: they had arrived weeks before they had been expected to, and even then they were anticipated to return to the south, not her northern capital. The grounds were still operating under the false security that no threat would soon fall upon them. The palace would be a different place in the morning, as would all of the kingdom.

Nothing would be the same once her armies came over the mountains.

It had been almost two hundred years since he had last stepped foot within the palace, yet his footfalls lead him with the same sureness as if he had just left the day before. He passes only a few others as he makes his way along, each one a servant who steps out of his way without asking him a word. It is not as if he is worried about running into advisors, since his own court was set in the far south, where he could pay attention to maintaining control of the rebellious island kingdom that sought to undermine him.

_As if he hadn't of had enough problems with brats…_

Still, he presses on.

If there was anyone in this palace to fear, it was the one he was going to now. It didn't matter if she was the one to banish him, he had a duty to perform.

All too soon, he finds himself rounding a familiar corner, and it is as if the air in this wing of the palace is different, heavier in his chest as he tried to breathe. He senses no stray servants mulling about within it, and he moves on into her chambers, not letting himself hesitate. If he does, he is not sure if he can continue.

There are a few tapers left burning within the outer chamber, but aside from that the only light illuminating the dark rooms are from the stray bands of moonlight that filter in through the latticed trellises that formed the walls looking out into one of the gardens. In the past, even at night there would be little silence, with the simple hum of servants going about their ways echoing lightly throughout the halls, and the gentle songs of birds within the gardens themselves. Now, it feels like the life had been drained out of the palace, with neither an animal or human voice within it.

At the very least, it served to remind him just how far gone she still was in her grief.

Finally, he's there, and for the first time he, hesitates. He's still covered with some of the worst of the grime from the ride in, but that knowledge seems far away, as unimportant as the level of wheat in the palace granaries in Thebes. It has been 200 years, but looking at her as she laid upon her bed, her dark hair adorning her bare shoulders as her sheet pooled around her chest, it was like he had never left. She was sleeping, and it seemed unnecessarily odd, since it was such a simple action: it was just that he had rarely seen her at rest, let alone at peace.

He takes a few tentative steps towards the bed, and then closes the distance sharply, bringing himself to sit lightly upon the edge of the bed that she faced. His movements are quiet and controlled, and she doesn't stir as he draws nearer her, nor does her breath hitch. He's going to have to wake her soon, but he doesn't want to, wanting to savor this moment of peace since there will be so little of it in the days and weeks to come.

His hand reaches out towards her, his calloused fingers outstretched as his tired limb hovers over her, gently bearing itself down upon her bare shoulder as if she was made of glass. There is silence except for his own heartbeat in his throat, and if there was any movement on the bed below him, his blue eyes never see it. His fingers are less than a hair's breath away from her skin, and in the darkness beneath the sheet tented against her chest, he never sees the shadow coiled, prepared to strike.

"_Saya_-" He never finishes her name, the hiss of the cobra the first and only sound he hears before he finds its fangs buried into his skin. He cries out before gritting his teeth, letting them grind as he tried to silence his voice, all as he feels the serpent drive its needlelike fangs deeper into the meat on his hand. He pulls away and half falls off of the bed as he tried to disengage its mouth, and even as he wraps his other hand around its neck, it keeps its hold, and he can feel the fangs begin to tear the flesh underneath his skin.

Finally, his fingers reach their mark and he crushes the delicate skull within his fist, the tail whipping out around a few more times before the body finally stills. His breathing is heavy as he pries its jaws open, the webbing along its mouth tearing with the motion. His heart is still racing as he tries to catch his breath, and when he finally regains it, he throws the limp form away in disgust. Waves of revulsion pass over him, and looking at his hand, he can see a thin trail of black fluid within the wound, some of it trailing outward as he bleeds.

With forced patience, he drives his thumb against the veins in his wrist, and the majority of the venom that had been injecting with its fangs oozes out with a sickening ease. Curses escape between his clenched teeth, and he wipes his bloodied hand against his pant leg, not caring as most of the cloth was already ruined. He takes another look at his hand, and he lets out a heavy breath. It probably wasn't enough to hurt him seriously, but with the weakening that he had been feeling these past years, he didn't want to run the risk of waiting.

Not now.

His flexes his hand, and while it hurts to clench it into a fist, it will do. He opens it up again and shakes it out, and breathes out in frustration. He knows without looking up what he will see, but he didn't come all this way just to turn tail so close to his goal.

Besides, her hate was nothing new.

Pushing himself up, he lets his eyes move back upon the bed, and is not surprised to find her watching him, disinterest shining dully in her dark eyes. Her bedclothes are white, the shade as unmarred as the sheets, and it allows him to fully see just what was sharing her bed with her.

Next to her, there was another serpent coiled alongside her like a sleeping child, a python this time, laying with a perverse sort of intimacy beside her form. Moving along, he can see movement along the whole of the bed, and another cobra's head pokes itself out from under the sheet, its tongue flicking out to taste the air, recoiling as if repulsed by his scent. Another slithers its way along her shoulder, the asp's tail pressed gently around her neck like the caress of a lover.

His lips curl back as he looks away, bile rising in his throat. "How long have you been sleeping with those, _things_, Sayara?"

'_And what in an ever-living hell is wrong with you?'_

"I don't recall absolving you of your banishment from my city, let alone give you the right to touch me." She turns away from him, and the asp around her shoulders brushes its head against her cheek. "And now you kill one of my servants. I feel no need to oblige you."

"As if I fucking knew that you would pull a stunt like _this_." He hisses out, the pain in his hand forgotten as his old frustrations reared their ugly heads. She raises a delicate brow at him. "Stunt? I don't understand you." She extends her arm out, and her 'pet' moves down from her shoulders along her arm, wrapping itself around the limb with gentle resolve. "They have been my companions for more years than you could ever claim. Why would I not share this part of my life with them?"

The asp's head is in line with her fingers now, and its tongue flits out against the tips, as if sampling her taste and finding it to its liking. The calmness in her voice is at odds with her actions, and not for the first time he wonders that perhaps leaving Delhi had done more harm to her than good, at least with her mindset.

Already, he can see three more serpents reveal themselves, these ones a mix of vipers and cobras, all poisonous. He pushes himself off the floor, trying not to use his injured right hand as he brought upright. "Is this why I can't hear any birds in the gardens anymore? Or are you this twisted that the only company you can bear to keep is those who live in silence?"

She regards him coldly before shrugging, the asp around her hand beginning to hiss as if upset at the words directed at its mistress. "The birdsongs annoyed me anyways."

'_Or just because I enjoyed them?' he thinks but doesn't say._

"In the end you have yet to explain your presence here." She turns away from him, bringing the asp up in front of her face as if it was nothing more than a songbird prepared to sing for her. "Will you answer for yourself before I allow all of them to play with you?" She pauses for a moment, and scrunches her nose in distaste. "And hurry with it. You _**reek **_of fear."

His forces his hand back into a fist, and watches in grim satisfaction as more blood seeps out from the wound, another trickle of venom being expelled along with it from his body. It helps calm him and to remember the situation at hand. He looks back at her, and his shoulders steady themselves. "We must hurry and reform the armies. In the northwest, our border has been breeched."

She keeps the asp level with her face, allowing it to reach out with its thin body in its attempt to bridge the distance between them; his eyes only remain fixed upon her face. There is the same emotionless cold that had been in her lovely face from before, but all he has to do is look long enough to see that she is not blinking, and that her breathing has almost slowed to a halt. It's not the '_our_' that he used that would upset her, not now: it was the implication that something had happened in the northwest, in the _boy's land_, that froze her actions to their core. He knew he had her attention.

There's silence for a long moment, and then the python alongside her begins to hiss, its large body shifting in rippling waves as it moves from beside her, baring its fangs at him. The others, all of them except for the asp she held in her hand, begin to follow suit, and if he didn't know that as servants they were extensions of her own emotion, he would have panicked at the sight. As it was, he just stood there, and fought to keep the sympathy out of his face.

The last thing she wanted was his pity.

"And how long ago has this been?" She's still not looking at him, but her words are guarded. "And who exactly has penetrated the security of my lands?"

He walks around the bed, situating himself at the foot of it, his face in line with her own line of sight had not her eyes still been trained upon her servant. "It's a mixed force, with the brunt of the troops Persian and another, I don't know for certain yet."

"_You don't know_?" She moves her fingers, giving the serpent obstacles to move around as it continued to wind itself around her hand. "You come here, with a stench of fear like piss trailing along you, and you can't even tell me whom I am to be alarmed by?" She cocks her head to the side, and the snake follows her actions. "I think I should just kill you know, and spare myself the future headache."

"I only _know _because I only saw one of them." He forces out between clenched teeth, his anger mixing with his own frustration at himself for not knowing more. "I only saw her, and she implied that there was another. The only other thing I know if that the 'other' is the main architect for this plan, and that Kemet, _Egypt_," he clarifies needlessly, as if she wouldn't know the name that that western empire called itself, "has no part in it. That is all that I was able to discern, aside from the fact that they plan on arriving before the year is at its end."

"Then you certainly didn't make very much haste in returning here, unless they felt like informing your ignorant carcass so late in the game." She makes a face, and then pushes the sheets down with a bare foot. He counts another two snakes, but doesn't bother to try and tell what they are: he's sure there are more elsewhere, around her palace if not in her bed. Keeping the asp around her hand, she moves off of the bed, pulling the hem of her dress down along her legs. "If you know who it cannot be, you should at least be able to make a guess as to who it _could _be, or is that too far beyond your capabilities?"

He makes a face, but doesn't raise to the bait as he once would have. "And if, _Persia_ is not the one in charge, then who would be powerful enough to make her their accomplice?" He frowns at this, but in his haste from the mountains he had not properly assessed such lines of thinking himself.

"Our sister, Persia's and my own, has no place in this, and from what I know there are few who could even attempt to match her." His brow furrows as only one name comes to mind, but he doesn't say it out loud: there is no point in voicing the impossible.

"And what of Greece?" She walks away from him, leaving the room as she moves into another, sitting herself in front of a simple vanity with a mirror before her. He follows after her, his steps slow as a chorus of hisses are directed at him from the top of her bed. She makes little haste with her actions, setting her asp onto the top of the mirror before directing her attention elsewhere, lighting a few candles that lined either end of the vanity.

"Is he not a rival empire to her?" Her fingers dip into a bowl beside her, and she deftly pulls out half a dozen hairpins, aligning them in front of her.

"It can't be him." He speaks with simple surety. "There is no way in this world that she would ever agree to fight alongside him, let alone be forced to." He shakes his head, and as much as he hates his older sister, he is sure in her abilities. "She would _die _before she let him."

"And you are sure of this?" Her hands move into her hair, and she begins twisting segments together, dividing her dark hair into long, divided curls. "I don't recall you ever claiming to be her keeper."

He just shrugs his shoulders. "I couldn't imagine it was possible."

She grabs a pin, and nimbly wraps it along a segment of hair, twisting it and pinning it into her hair with harsh precision. "And I am sure, that before whatever incident along the northwest came to pass, you would have thought her invincible in battle as well: now you know that she had been defeated." She repeats the motion with another section of her hair, stabbing the hairpin in with an excessive amount of force that she never seemed to lose control of. "I care very little for what you believe, and even less for what you think. I am only interested in what you actually know, so tell me again: are you sure it is not Greece?"

It takes so little for her to reduce his arguments to those of a child, and he hates it even more because he knows she is right. "I do not know for certain if it is, indeed Greece." He pauses for a moment, remembering Persia's odd behavior at the mere mention of the man's name. "She did act a bit _strained _when I mentioned him, but aside from that I do not know."

"Hmm." That is all the response that he is awarded, as two more hairpins are forced into their places. When she had been in bed (whether she had been sleeping at all, he could not say), her hair had hung around her shoulders in gently rolling waves, the dark brown in harmony with her slightly lighter skin against the whiteness of her sheets: now, most of it was pinned back, with only the longest locks hung freely down her back.

"And how did she say they would come?" It comes out as smoothly as if she was asking how long until sunrise, and there is a noted lack of distress in her voice that he found disconcerting. Still, he cannot deny her an answer. "I can only assume along the pass in the far northwest, the one that leads along into the mountains that separate this half of the world from the other. So, I would say a land army, since she said they would arrive before the end of winter, and she has no navy that could bring her this far and be able to sustain itself."

"So, a land assault, headed by the two strongest empires in the west?" He nods, for what else are they facing? Nothing more, and nothing less.

Again, she makes a quiet sound of acknowledgement, and she secures the final hairpin, her movements as ever sharp and severe. She looks at herself for a moment, her fingers making final adjustments as she was finally satisfied with her work. Her hands move back down towards the table top, and she pulls a few dishes of cosmetics towards her, ignoring him with casual ease. He watches her, and he is lost for a while, watching her as she prepared herself for the day at this hour of the night, as if the movements of the sun were meaningless to her. He would continue watching her, but he feels a slight movement at his feet. He looks down at his side, and he is greeted with the sight of her python moving itself towards him, its eyes regarding him with cold hostility.

"Shouldn't you be going by now?" She still isn't looking at him, but he rethinks the statement as the serpent regards him with the same lethal contempt that her eyes held. "Don't you have something to do?"

He looks up at her, and a look of confusion marks his tired face. "What do you-"

"You have come to inform me of the situation we have at hand, did you not?" She doesn't wait for his answer, because it wouldn't matter to her anyways. "Having accomplished that, would it not be necessary for you to marshal your generals in the south back to my capital? Unless you honestly believe that we will repeal this invasion with our forces divided, which judging from your past delusional efforts may be true, you ought to make haste." Her hands continue their ministrations, and her face never softens for a moment.

He finally ventures out a thought that he had been harboring in his mind. "Are you not afraid?"

She pauses for a moment, but unlike earlier when her actions had actually frozen, now she is only taking a break. Her lips allow themselves to be formed into a harshly amused smirk, and her hands move back into their ordained duties. "Why would I have any reason to be afraid? You seem to be terrified enough for the both of us."

His jaw tightens, and he steps closer to her despite the python's hissing protests. "You don't seem to understand just who we have to deal with in this. You have never even met her-"

"I don't have to. I can see her clearly enough in your mind, your thoughts seem to have be _obsessed _with her for weeks." She straightens her spine, relishing in the sound of her joints resettling into their proper places. Her smirk cuts deeply into her face. "Why would I be afraid of some overgrown, flat-chested bitch?"

She can see his reaction in her mirror, and gauging the rush of blood to his face and the strain in his jaw, she can see that he is unprepared to think of the other woman in such a way. All the better for her. She smoothes her lips back into a seamless line, applying liner to her eyes with a single stroke of her hand, never once wavering.

Her words are equally firm, and for once lose their tone of mocking. "Go now, and serve some purpose to me. Show me how badly you want to survive."

With that, she proceeds to ignore him, and barely notices when he finally departs from her, casting worried looks over his shoulder as he took his leave. It's amusing, but an after thought at this point. By the time she senses he is gone, she is already finished with her cosmetics, thoughts of rest firmly gone from her mind as her body yearned for action. She stands, remembering to retrieve her asp from its place on top of her mirror before making her way back into her bedroom, setting it down upon her bed before discarding her shift as she began to dress.

She retrieves a citron sari to wrap around her frame, the bright color at odds with the darkness of the night around her. The silk runs smoothly under her fingers, an old gift from an even older friend whom she missed dearly. It was one of the few things that she allowed herself to keep from the past.

It was good to feel it against her skin, the cool fabric easing the heat of her flesh as it wrapped around her slender frame it as easily as it had when she had first worn it. She was glad he was gone, for he wouldn't be able to see the look that had pushed itself onto its face, her eyes gleaming with dark delight.

She hadn't felt better in years.

In all honesty, his arrival been one of surprise, the bastard weakling returning without her ward in hand. However, the man had always been rather feeble minded, and she had been subject to all of this frightened little thoughts that were running inside his otherwise empty head. She knew from his fragmented memories that the boy's safety had been assured, and with that the one lone variable in this upcoming conflict had been removed from her mind. She had felt relief, and excitement at the same time.

Relief that her ward would eventually be returned to her.

Excitement at the thought of a war, where her enfeebled limbs and people could flex her new-found strength, and take advantage of the other's weakening state. Besides, had that not been her aim for the past thousand years?

And, of course, they would not be alone: the man's brooding monstrosity of a sister, and her unwilling partner (whomever he may be) were a pair whom she looked most forward to face. Aryan was now weak, and she held little doubt that he strayed too far from the bloodline: that Persia was already in a subjugated state would have doubtlessly hampered her judgment, and her pride (like so many of her kings) would cloud her mind.

India smiled to herself, moving to select a few bracelets before bidding her loyal servants farewell as they hissed their goodbyes, leaving her chambers lit without any more thoughts spared to them. It was cooler at night, far colder than in the summer when the sun seemed to melt flesh from the bone: all the same, it was blissful against her skin, which still seemed to burn with a heat born out of her impassioned thrill at the prospect of the hostilities that awaited.

Her bare feet make little sounds along the stone passage ways, but it doesn't matter to her to be silent now: she was on her way to awaken one of her many kings within this land, rousing him from his sleep as the time to prepare drew near. She didn't care what sort of rest they thought they needed, she was too excited to sleep, and in her joy they would be forced to share in, whether they wanted to or not.

She would not be denied her will.

_Not now._

* * *

**Historical Notes: **Another chapter on the Greco-Persian campaign into the Indian Subcontinent. The conquest began slowly, pushing into the area now known as Afghanistan in 327 BC, not pushing into modern Pakistan and India until the following year. The combined Greco-Persian forces had many hardships as they pressed into the subcontinent under the Macedonian king Alexander the Great, since by this time his Greek-Macedonian forces had been forced from the Persian campaign directly into the Indian one, many having spent more than 7 years away from their homeland. With his Persian troops, morale was sustainable as long he continued to lead the army farther into Asia: to balk or halt his campaign would have lost most of the fluctuating loyalty that he held. In addition, his Greek-Macedonian troops chafed at their Persian counterparts being treated as equals, despite their king's trust in them. With all of this, Alexander continued with his fateful decision to not return to Babylon (let alone Pella, the capital of Macedonia) and instead pushed on along the Khyber Pass into the Hindu Kush, into the subcontinent that he did not understand nor was prepared for.

So it goes.

**Author's Notes: **As we wrap up this set, things are coming back in full circle, since the first chapter, Rākha, was actually the ending point for this war. Also, does this count as the longest chapter when it's almost actually 2? The search for an answer continues…[I'm being silly now.]

**Up Next: **Desires are not always those of the flesh, as judgments are not always of the mind. Nonetheless, such actions are felt by all. Vienna, 1733


	21. Pacte de Famille

**20100713: **Yes, once again I was guilty of posting un-betaed work. My poor beta, she has been so busy as of late, our schedules just don't match up that well anymore [*well, if you weren't such a shitty-*] Shut up.

Sorry-ish about last week. Technical problems, including my younger brother spiriting away my laptop's power cord to Arizona (about 1,800 miles away), made this chapter late. Oh well. Here's Chapter 21, which has stripped 20's of its title of longest [am I long winded or what?] And World Cup, you make me so sad. My desired 'Guay-Off' in the finals is ruined. That's it, I don't care about _**soccer **_anymore.

* * *

**Everlasting Night**

**Title: **Prelude to Conflict  
**Chapter 21: **Pacte de Famille  
**Characters: **España, France, Austria, and guests.  
**Rating: **PG-13  
**Summary: **An inherited role or inescapable fate? What difference does it make, when the results are the same?

_Vienna, 1733 AD_

"Do you wish for me to congratulate you on this?"

There is a dry politeness in his words, as if they were spoken purely out of obligation and were of no pleasure to the speaker. Francis gently let out a breath, and resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he took another sip of his tea. By now it was lukewarm, the original flavor too light to really be enjoyable. He supposes that little Austria must have ordered it made the moment he realized he would have to see the Frenchman anyways, regardless of his wishes, and it had probably set it out here to cool out of spite.

Francis' suppresses a smirk at the mental image of the fussy aristocrat being ordered around by his equally fussy Emperor, and takes his time setting down his cup until he can regain his composure. All the while, Austria continues to glare at him, as if his face could bear no other expression. Francis supposes he is expecting an answer, and finally, he relents.

"I would hardly come here to solicit your praises, if that is what you are concerned about." He sets his cup down in front of him, and allows his hands to join together. "I merely wish to help, _alleviate _some concerns that I am under the impression that you have. Or am I incorrect in believing that there is anything the matter at all?"

"As I recall," Austria's gloved fingers gently push his own drink away from him: Francis notes that there is still steam rising gently from the aristocrat's tea, but ignores it, "I did not request this meeting with you, and should you have been under that impression I will be the first to extend my apologies."

Francis nods his head lightly, letting a small smile play upon his lip. "Ah, how unfortunate. All these little rumors I hear buzzing about must have come from somewhere else. You know how much Gilbert likes to talk about trifles."

Which, of course, was not true. As far as the treaty went, there really hadn't been much in the way of complaints when it came to Prussia, who was all fine in not having to have a hand in it. Out of all the empires within Europe, of the nations that made of this glorious continent, only one of them was causing such a fuss, and the little prat was pretending it wasn't _him_.

Austria's face remains coldly detached as he looks upon the other nation. "Tell me, France, have you been making a habit of this? Making a circuit around the continent, disregarding the business or wishes of others, as you have done so with myself, acting like you are concerned about their beliefs when you are only peddling for their approval?"

Francis' smile widens, and he lets out a charming laugh; he wonders faintly if Austria's mood would be improved if he could wrap his fingers around the other man's throat. "You wound my feelings with such cruel words, my dear Austria. I am only here to make you feel better, and once I am aware of that I will be on my way."

"To do what?"

"_Honoring my word." _The words come out smoother than he thought they would have. Francis keeps his smile from growing, trying not to give away any reactions to Austria if he could help it. Still, it was good to hear those words: it was if she was in the room with him, standing behind him with her hand upon his shoulder.

"Do you honestly think, _Francis_," Austria speaks slowly, his measured tones oozing contemptuous discretion with each word, "that you are fooling anyone with this? That anyone actually expects that you won't renege on the agreement and join the two thrones?"

Francs lets out a self-satisfied chuckle, wondering why it has taken the little aristocrat so long to get to his point. "You normally not this careless with your words, dear Austria. Tell me, does it bother you so much that she is with me now and now longer under your clever little thumb? _It is must hurt your pride so…"_

Austria can feel the heat rise under his collar, but he refuses to cave in to France's amusement. "In a personal sense, nothing could make me happier than to be rid of her. I found no pleasure or use in her presence, though I am sure you have made good use of her."

His smiles remains, but Francis' eyes glitter dangerously. _"_Little Austria _assumes so much."_

'_You talk just like her, you know.' _Austria is sure that France does not even notice it yet, but each year that passed it became increasingly apparent. _'You can't even tell, but I know your younger sister must notice.'_

_And Reina…_

'_She most of all…'_

"When I tell you, little Austria, that you have no need for concern when it comes to this compact, which is my word, there is no reason for you to carry doubt upon the matter." Francis lets out another small laugh, one laced with amusement and ire. "Do you not have faith in my honor, little Austria?" His eyes flicker back towards Austria's stiffly apprehensive form. _"_Do you not, _trust me?"_

Austria glares coldly back at him. "Do not act as if your honor is solely what is at stake here, France. You've proven before that you were a man who could be reasoned with. I continue speaking with you under the hopes that that still has not changed, yet with each word that passes between us, I fear that it no longer is to be."

Francis shakes his head, his smile so wide upon his face it begins to hurt. "Such _impudence, _little Austria. I am as reasonable of a man as I have always been. I am afraid that it is _you _who is impeding the process of us understanding one another. Please present a rational argument before me, and we will be able to be friends yet again."

"However," his hands slowly depart from one another in front of him, Francis leaning his slender frame closer towards the other, " if you insist upon bringing the dear honorable lady into our discussion, let alone our argument, I will have no more patience for you. Do you understand?" And how easily that word spills from his lips, how little effort it takes to speak of her honor even after all that has come to pass.

_How easily…_

Austria closes his eyes. "I told you, France, that it is not your honor that is at stake here, and nor is whatever it now extends to. What is at stake is the fate of two thrones, which Heaven has declared must keep separate, but you seemed determined to join."

"_Heaven_? My dear boy," Austria stiffens at the term, "I believe that no god has played any part in such separation. Whether it is natural or unnatural, only the passage of time will such a distinction be made. Nonetheless, I assure you that I have no such aims in mind."

'_For now.' _And Austria knows that without having to say it out loud. _'For now you will do no such thing.' _

'_But come tomorrow…'_

"France, listen to me." Austria attempts to calm his features, to stay the anger in his voice. "On a purely hypothetical level, on which this agreement exists, there is nothing wrong with it. There was no valid argument against the wording of the document that I could use against its recognition. You know that, as do I." He levels his gaze with France. "My main issue with it is, not so much the political underpinnings that this compact declares. It is just…" and with that he pauses, his hands tightening before themselves without shifting in the slightest.

Francis waits for him to continue on, and within a moment Austria makes up his mind to finish.

"I do not honestly believe that your intentions with _her _can become or remain perfectly political, nor do I believe you will remain as in control of the situation, with the two of you, as you so believe." His gaze is locked with France's, and he knows how the other will react. He feels his teeth worrying his bottom lip, and finds that he can't help it. Still, the words do not stop.

"I do not honestly believe that there is anyway that you can deal with _that _woman without you dragging the rest of us down with you." He keeps his hands firm before him, but he can feel the slight prick when the edge of his lip is nicked by a tooth. Finally, he breaks his gaze away from France. "I am sorry."

And he is.

France is quiet for a moment, and then lets out a choked laugh. "So that is what it is, isn't it? You honestly don't trust me, do you Roderich?"

It's a simple question, and Francis knows there is no way that the other can answer truthfully without escalating the argument. Austria knows this as well, and try as he might to cooperate with the other empire, he would have to stand his ground. He knows that the temptation will be too great for France to resist, and try as he might he knows that France will succumb to her need

"It is not a matter of trust, Francis. You know that. We've been over this."

"Or is it," there's a look of warped look of glee upon his face, matched only by the rage pooling inside of his chest, "that you don't trust _her_?"

'_And I know that you don't, little Austria. You don't trust her, and you never have, because she wouldn't let you have your way, did she now? Do you honestly think I will choose you over my own blood, especially when there is so little of it left in the world in this day and age…'_

Austria's brow furrows for a moment before straightening out, his jaw tightening. "You know very well that I have never trusted the woman. I did not trust her when I let my Phillip marry the grand Catholic's daughter, nor do I trust her now. I do not believe that you understand my point. Please understand…"

His purses his lips for a moment, but Austria's determination wins out over his caution. "It is because I don't trust the man who you are when you are with _her_. And you cannot deny that this allegiance with her is more than mere politics. There is not a word that you can say that will make me believe that any of that would change once this agreement goes into effect."

There is silence between them, both stifling and empty at the same time. Austria's eyes are trained on his tea before him, keeping his posture from showing signs of stress or trepidation. Francis, for his part, surprises Austria, neither flying into a fit of rage or gaping openly at him. The older empire's eyes were gently closed, his breathing steady and relaxed as if they were speaking of pleasanter things. The quiet extends for what seems an age, and Francis' lips are the first to break it.

"I will take me leave of you now, little Austria. Let us as nations stay friends as I will pretend that you have made no such deplorable claims against me."

'_Or her.' _That last part remains silent, but Francis might as well shouted it. Austria neither nods or replies to the comment, just leaning slightly back in his seat with his eyes partially closed. All the same, it is not as if Francis will change the compact because of this. His own emperor had seen no problem with the agreement, preferring a peaceful transfer of power in the west as his worries centered on his young heir. He didn't understand just what France was hinting at with this abomination of a compact.

He didn't realize that France no longer had the capabilities to keep to his word.

_But Austria did._

"Also," Francis sits up abruptly, pushing himself away from the table with as much grace as his quiet anger allowed him. "send my best regards to your young lady. And tell Gilbert that he breathes too loud." With that he moves to walk away, circling around the table as he makes his way towards the door. As he passes behind Austria, the younger man's gloved hand reaches out, grabbing hold of his sleeve.

"You know that there have been rumors about what has been happening in the-"

"_Do not," _France hisses out, his hand wrapping itself painfully tight around Austria's thin wrist, _"presume that you know anything. _As to rumors," he laughed, a crooked sneer adorning his naturally handsome face, "are they not reflections of the petty idleness of low men? Is that not what they are when they concern _you?"_

Austria jerks his arm back, but Francis doesn't let him go. "Don't compare the two as if they were anything near the same issue." He keeps his voice level, even as he felt the delicate bones in his wrist begin to grind against each other. "Also, have you even _once _tried to discern whether there was any truth in the claims that-"

"I do not believe, that there is anything that we have further to discuss." Francis' hand lets go of Austria, all but flinging the limb back at him. "May our next meeting be in better circumstances." And with that he leaves, his steps steady but his hands forceful as he flung the parlor's door open, all but shoving the servants who had been huddled beside it away.

He never looks back.

* * *

Francis keeps his breathing steady as he makes his way down the hall. He wills himself to continue on, and fights the urge to turn heel and return to the little infant's chamber, to wrap his hands around the other's frail neck as he strangled the life out of him. Austria just couldn't understand, he wouldn't-

_He didn't __**want **__to._

The line of Francis' jaw is set tightly, and he continues on without hesitation. He couldn't wait to leave this awful palace, this awful country, to go back home, to get to…

His thoughts trail for a second, and he thinks of her sunny homeland. And then the thought passes.

It wasn't like he had gone into it, expecting some kind _gain_ from the affair. He didn't even remember why he had been there in the first place, back then in that war where his people refused to take part as his elder sister and little England sought to ruin one another yet again. No, that time more than a century past, he hadn't of been there of his own desire: little Madalena had been worried about their sister, and had asked him to look after her.

It turned out Madalena had reason to be.

The younger woman had contributed little to the war, which was expected, as Reina had been the mastermind of it since the beginning. It was regrettable, but well understood throughout their world, that gentle Portugal would always be dragged into her sister's wars due to the misfortune of where her lands laid and her bloodlines: because of such, she rarely felt the force of others in their wars, and never their hate. His poor little Madalena, suffering silently like a hallowed saint in her sunny but lonely homeland, raising her adopted child away from the others as she pulled away from their world.

Reina had been more than willing to pick up the slack.

But, in the years that had followed little England's Protestant queen's ascension to the throne, things had not gone well for her. One thing had lead to another, and his growing unease over little England's rapidly developing growth had began to be overshadowed by Reina's increasing volatility. There were just little things, here and there over the last century: a few more skirmishes with Austria and England that perhaps could have been avoided, ordering Madalena around as she had for the last millennium, a slightly more vicious approach to purging the religious minorities within her borders. Little things.

_Reina things._

And then there were some things that were not so little.

There were rumors, like there always had been since she had first taken the new continent and claimed it as her own. Rumors were always such petty things, such _vulgar_ things, and he had done his best to ignore the whispered barbs that followed in the wake of every one of their kind. God knows that he had enough about him, and while they were sometimes amusing to hear, they were still a bit disconcerting. But Reina's…

They persisted, and even if he could ignore them, he was less sure that the others would. Austria in particular didn't seem to want to let the issue go.

_They just wouldn't understand._

Reina might be cruel when the whim took her, and she was harsh, as both a woman and as a nation, but like all of others, she had her limits. She was not a monster. She wouldn't go after children. Not like that.

'_But Antonio…'_

He brushes that thought aside. That didn't matter anymore, since he had already taken care of that problem.

He knows that bearing the child had not been an easy experience for her, perhaps carrying the child to term more than the birth itself, nor was having to raise him when the boy was a constant reminder of what had happened to her all those years ago. In those years, when they had not even pretended to be anything other enemies, shutting the child away and periodically starving the boy had been enough for her wrath. It had been terrible, yes, and it had been undoubtedly cruel, but as little comfort as it was, the fact that she did little else to the boy was a miracle in itself.

Given her capacity for violence, which rivaled that of their brother's murderer, this was not something he had taken for granted.

Besides, he could not forget that it had been _she _who had raised him. In his earliest years of his childhood, his father had been little more than a stranger in his life, a shadow without a face, a man busy building his empire who had little time to devote to raising the children whom he barely knew. Instead, and he knew this went for Madalena as well, his earliest memories were those of Reina. His recollections of those years have blurred with the passage of time, but it had always been her face that he could see in his mind, and he had known, even as a child, that she had been lovely beyond compare…

Memories of her pretty face and her hands that were always kind, those memories had comforted and haunted him in the years that would eventually pass. When was it that the laughter in her voice changed, or when had her hands no longer held or comforted him? When had her smile become so cold, and when had the kindness gone out of her eyes?

_When her child had been born?_

_When father had died?_

_When his treachery had allowed their baby brother to be __**slaughtered?**_

It didn't matter. They could only keep moving forward. He could only pray for what remained of his little family, and take care of them as best as he could.

Then one day, that dreadful day all those years ago, had changed _everything _for them.

He had felt in his gut that something had gone horribly wrong with her fleet. He had felt it, but had said nothing, waiting quietly beside her as they waited for her child to return with news. The Armada had left from Madalena's capital, and from there they had awaited its return, the three of them in sober silence.

His baby sister could not stand the tension within the palace, preferring to wait for the Armada's return outside the compound with her son in hand. Francis supposed that it had been for the best, since both the child's impressionable constitution and her own weak nerves made them poor candidates to wait alongside Reina. The imperial woman herself had desired little of his company, and he had paced the silent palace halls alone.

_Weeks had passed. _

Weeks, and then when Antonio had finally returned, it was with a shell of the force he had left with.

"_I'm so sorry, mother. Forgive me." The boy had been weeping before her, having tried to report to her like a proper officer and dissolving into tears under her baneful gaze. Madalena had been standing beside her sister's throne, quiet agony upon her small face as she restrained herself from comforting her sister's child. Her own son had been sent far to the south, on pretenses of a trip for the boy that served in keeping him as far away from Reina in her enraged state as she could. Her hands were folded together in front of her, her gray gown matching her mournful face. Francis himself had been in the opposite side of the room, standing besides one of the large windows that looked out into the harbor, the large panes of glass allowing him to watch the stormy skies that were gathering around him. He could not yet bear to look back at the boy. Hearing the boy's pitiful cries were already enough…_

"_I'm sorry mother, I'm sorry, we tried to hold them off but we couldn't-" And his words had cut off without a further sound, and in the silence that had followed, Francis turned around. The boy is still kneeling before her, his tattered uniform at odds with the immaculate, dark red brocade that covered her regal form. The color was dark, deep like blood that had dried in the shadows, only matched by how dark her eyes were in the fading light. There was a cruel gleam of silver from the cross that hung around her neck, the depiction of the crucifixation of Christ hanging above her covered breasts. In fact, there was little of her skin that wasn't covered by that wretched red, her collar high to hide the scars that were the only things that marred her perfect flesh._

_When he turned, he could see that her hand had been outstretched, out towards her son in a gesture that demanded silence. His eyes flickered from between her and the boy, the child like a man only with his body. He was looking at his mother, a look of reverence mixed with dread as his palms rested against the stone floor, his back hunched over in deference. France's eyes move back towards his sister, and her eyes are set upon the boy, a dullness within in that betrayed no emotion within them. A crack of thunder can be heard outside, and he knows that the storm will be soon in coming. Finally, she speaks._

"_Why do you speak to me in such a way, boy?" There is an emptiness in her tone, not a hint of warmth or passion present as the words left her lips. Madalena's gaze moves towards her joined hands, and Francis remains where he is. Antonio looks up at his mother, a look of uncertainty upon his young face. Needing no answer, she continues on._

"_Why do you beg me for forgiveness, when you know that I have none to give?"_

_Francis can see the boy's breath hitch within his chest, and Madalena's head bows deeper. Francis takes a step towards his sister, but comes no closer. _

"_Reina." The warning tone is clear in his voice, but she ignores him: instead, she speaks to their sister. "Madalena, leave us now. I do not want to have to hear you cry when I already must listen to this incompetent child sniveling." Her eyes harden as her face grimaces. "Get away from me now."_

_And she does, even if little Madalena is the co-regent to the Iberian throne. It is but a title, anyways, since Reina's control of their union would not be questioned nor denied. She walks out of the room, her steeps hurried but composed enough for her station, though he knows that she will be running once she is out of their range of hearing, running and now doubt that soon she will be within a carriage, making her way towards her child so she can put this ugly business behind her and drown herself in caring for the boy. He doesn't blame her for it, anymore than he ever has. As such, it is just the three of them now. _

_It is her voice that breaks the silence again._

"_That you would dare come here, humiliating me before my allies and my enemies alike, and you would beg for forgiveness?" Francis takes another step closer to the two, but his words seem to escape him at the moment. The boy just looks at her, his features frozen upon his face. Her words continue._

"_That you would dare come back in defeat, that you would dare shame myself and my people." She pushes herself up from her throne, stepping before her child as if he was nothing more than a dog. Her words are as quiet and sure as her own steps, and she closes the distance between the two of them with her fluid grace, as if unaffected by the passage of time. In the next moment, her hands are resting against the child's face, her fingertips gently pressing against the line of his jaw as she brought her face nearer to him._

"_You dared come back here __**alive**__?"_

_Francis rushes at her, but his action are already late. As the last word left her perfect lips, her nails dug into the soft tissue underneath his jaw, tearing into the soft flesh with pitiless ease. The boy tries to cry out, but her thumbs dig into his throat, both tearing open the flesh and crushing his airway at the same time. His footsteps aren't fast enough before he reaches them, his hands grasping at her shoulders as the boy struggled under her. His arms are strong, but it takes all of his strength to pull her off of her son, his arms wrapping around her waist as she hands continued to seek her child's flesh. She shrieks at him, but he won't let go._

"_Get out of here, __**Antonio**__." He hisses between clenched teeth, his sister thrashing in his arms as he fought to keep his hold. Any pretenses of regality or elegance are gone from her, her writhing form not given him a moment's peace. "GO!" But the boy doesn't leave, misery merged with terror upon his young face, blood staining the already tattered collar of his mantle. He backs away from his mother, his face towards her as his legs backpedaled him against the wall. The boy's eyes never leave her, her shrieks mingled in her native tongue and that of their father's as her attention turns towards Francis, her nails digging into his wrists. _

"_He's not yours, brother, he's mine, let me go, __**let me-" **__Her nails twist into his wrist, and he numbly he feels it when one of the nails pierces farther through the skin, slicing deep enough to cut into a vein. Almost instantly, he can feel blood soaking through his sleeve, her nails digging in for further purchase, and with mild regret he folds his arms around her tightly, crushing her within his embrace. She lets out a muffled shriek as the breath is forced from her lungs, and he finally is able to trap her hands down._

"_Te voy a matar, voy a matar su bastardo-" Her words come out in breathless gasps, one of his arms wrapped tightly around her chest as the other worked at holding down her arms. His face was buried against her neck as he head thrashed. __**"Get out of here, Antonio, get out**__.__**" **__But the boy won't listen, and he's just sitting there, crying, watching the two of them as his mother seeks to end his life and France continued to hold her in his crushing embrace._

"_Let go or I'll kill him, let go or I'll kill you __**first**__-" And out of their long years that they have had together, this is the first time she had ever voiced that thought out loud, even though he had surmised long ago that she had wanted it. In a moment, he is lost in a vast abyss of anger, and forgetting whom he was holding in his arms, his limbs crush against her delicate form, lifting her up off the ground until her feet dangle uselessly against his shins._

_He can feel rather than hear her bones as they began to grind together, and she lets out a thin shriek, one of pain instead of anger this time, one that would have been a scream if her ribcage hadn't been being crushed under one of his forearms. Her body is so much smaller than his own, so slender, and as his arms continue to constrict around her, his face pushes against the curve of her neck, his lips accidentally brushing against her skin as he lost himself in her scent. He doesn't know how long it lasts, her strangled cries going unnoticed as they taper off, his arms just holding her tighter and tighter and-_

_It wasn't until he felt another's hand pulling against his arm, the other pushing his face away from her neck does he come back to himself._

"_Stop it, stop it, let her go, mother-" The boy is still speaking through tears as he tries to loosen France's arms, his mother choking on her own breath as ribs began fracturing in upon themselves. "Let go of mother, stop it, please." Francis blinks for a second, and then again: without realizing it, his arms begin to sag, and before he can come to terms with what he had just done, the boy is already pulling her away from him. She slips bonelessly out of his arms, not even able to push the boy away from her as he dragged her from her brother, holding her gently as her lungs fought to replenish themselves with air._

"_Anto-" the boy's name pauses upon his lips, his eyes widening as he looked down upon the two. "Mon Dieu..." Francis takes a step back, his own breath caught in his chest as his sister fought to breathe. One arm is still soaked with his own blood, and he can see that her entire breast is also covered in it, drenched from when he had been trying to break her in his arms. "Oh God, oh God…" And the only thing he can be grateful for was that Madalena wasn't there to see it, not to see him do this to the woman that she both feared and loved._

_He backs away from both of them, his steps faltering as his voiced cracked. "Oh God, Reina, I'm sorry, I'm-oh God…" She's on her knees, half supported by her hated bastard child as her chest heaved. Antonio doesn't look at him, __**won't **__look at him, the boy whispering to his mother in their native tongue as she tried pushing him away. She doesn't have the strength to, and at last she finally manages to force her head upward, her eyes bloodshot as she tried to speak. "You-so this is-this is how you try to get rid…of me…" She's trying not to hyperventilate, for once not acting as her slender form fought to keep itself upright. "Is this it, Fra…Francis?" She grits her teeth._

"_Are you going to kill me like you killed our brother?"_

_She shoves her son away from her, the boy relenting as she half fell to the ground without him. She's on the floor, barely able keep herself up but her hateful gaze never leaves France. She laughs at him, the sound half choked and garbled, but the hate within it is clear enough. "What, are you stopping now? Why-why don't you be a man for once, why don't you-" and the rest of her words were lost, her lungs unable to waste breathe speaking as they fought to put oxygen back into themselves._

"_Reina." And if there are tears running down his face, he can't tell, but he moves towards her, letting his knees fall against the hard stone floor as he pulled his arms around her. She stiffens before his embrace even starts, and her breathing becomes worse as she tries to pull away from him, desperate to put space between them. However, his empty murderous thoughts have long left his system, and he's crying, holding her in his arms like he only had once before, that horrible time when his baby sister had fled to his country, begging him to come._

"_Je suis désolé, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, oh God-" He pulls her closer to him, careful not to hurt her battered body any more than he already has with his own damned hands. She's coughing now, but her breathing is becoming less labored as she slowly regains her strength, forced to lean against him as he wept upon her shoulder. "Reina, please forgive me, please."_

"_Why?" Her words never lose their touch of hate. "Why, why should I? You killed him, you, you were __**jealous**__, why-"_

"_I'm sorry." And he is, even if he wasn't the one to kill Justinian. It was his fault, though, with decades of trying to weaken the Byzantine Prince, and then one day he realizes that another had come for the boy's life. All while under his watch, just like this. "I'm sorry, s'il vous plaît, please, let me, let me make it-"_

"_And what could you-what could you do to make anything, __**better**__?" He can't see her face as he has her pressed against him, but her eyes regain some of their sharpness. "What do you, what do you think you could do?" He says nothing as another sob escapes his throat, and he hates himself for having lost control. He had never hurt her, he had barely ever __**touched **__her, and now he had tried killing, crushing her much smaller frame with his arms, and he hadn't even realized what he was doing. Antonio sits away from them, the boy still crying, the wounds on his neck forgotten as his eyes remained upon his fallen mother._

'_I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm-' The mantra repeats through his mind, everything else around him lost. One of her hands raises slowly up towards his chest, its journey hindered by her weakened state, eventually clutching at his shoulder. Her eyes have yet to regain their regal composure, but her lips…_

_With her chin resting on his shoulder, she turns her head; her lips are but a hairbreadth's away from his ear. "Do you want…to do something that will make it better?" Her voice is still weakened, strained from her shrieking, but the thoughts behind her words never flag. Barely listening to her, Francis nods, still holding onto her as if she might break in the next instance. With his swift, mindless consent, she pauses for a moment, allowing herself to catch her breath: her eyes are focused upon her child when the next words pass form her lips._

"_Claim him." Those are just two words, but with those two words she delivers a deathblow. "Claim him as your own."_

_Francis stiffens around her, confusion first making its way upon his miserable face before understanding follows. "Reina? What do you-"_

"_Claim him as your own, brother." Her hand clutches tighter at him, the words whispered directly into his ear with her breathless voice. "You've heard what they say about me, your little __**friends **__in the East."_

_She pulls herself closer against him. "Claim him, and remove the mark of bearing a bastard from my name."_

"_Please, Reina, no…"And he's pleading with her, his tones hushed as he tried to keep their words from reaching Antonio. The boy had no knowledge as to who was his father, as did no one outside their diminished family circle. No one knew, and he had hoped that no one would care. But they talked. _

_Oh God, how people __**talked**__._

"_Please, Reina-"_

"_Claim him." Her words remain firm. "Claim him, and I will never touch him again. Would that please you, __**brother**__, would that make you happy? You can pretend that you have a real son like you did when you played with England…" And her words are so hateful and cruel, but each one reaches their mark, and each one reeks of the truth. Had that not been why he had sheltered England, raising the young boy as best as he could, determined the be the kind of father that Rome could never have hoped to be…_

'_But, oh God, mon Dieu, I can't-'_

_But he could. He loved Antonio. He had loved the poor boy, whose only fault was the blood that ran through his veins. He loved the boy, and if saying such a small thing, such a small, tiny thing, he could protect that boy from the woman that he both loathed and loved, then…_

"_Please…" He's only pleading now, his words holding little meaning. Her grip only tightens, and she presses herself up against him. "Claim him. Claim both of us. If you had to destroy your brother, at least take his place by my side…"_

_And he hates her, he hates her so much, partly because she is cruel, but mostly because he can never escape her. He never can, and he is sick of trying._

"_Promise?" The word is his defeat, but he says it anyways. He has to. There are so few of them left, he has to take care of them, even in this sinful way. One of her arms wrap around his neck, and she turns her face towards him, allowing her gaze only to look upon him._

"_Always, brother." And her lips are against his face, tasting his tears that he had shed when he had, for a moment, tried to end her life._

'_Always.'_

_Always and never._

_How it has always been, and how it will always be._

He pulls himself back from his thoughts, his feet unconsciously guiding him to his borrowed chambers as his mind had been lost in the past. Things were still bad, they always would be, but there was a peace at least, a peace held between the two of them. The days of the shared Iberian throne had come and passed, but even as such, both of his sisters still held onto their peace. Eventually, he had arranged that the boy would be sent abroad, allowed to manage a bulk of her colonies [_but not the South American ones. Not the ones that people whispered about_], allowed to live a life of unprecedented peace and comfort away from her. And she had allowed it. Of all of the things, she had not once made light of her word.

_And as her request…_

…

It had not been the hardest thing that he had had to do. People would talk, like little Austria who could never mind his own business, but few were brave enough to ask. However, when they did, there was only one answer as to whom the father of her dear son was. It strengthened both his and her own throne, not having to worry about anyone discovering Antonio's bastard father, and as the years came to pass, he found himself liking the idea more and more. The boy was happy now, even making friends with one of the little Italian boys. Even Prussia liked him-

-_and Prussia…_

Few people were brave enough to ask about the boy's father. Gilbert had been one of them.

"_He's not really yours, is he?" A rather abrupt question to ask during one of France's infrequent visits, but that had always been his style. Francis had looked at him, his eyes searching the other's face for any hints of mockery or knowing: there was nothing there, only quiet, unconcerned doubt._

"_Vous mauvais ami, of course he is! Why would you say such an ugly thing, my little darling…" And he had rarely had to say that lie, but he remembered each and every time that he did. He let out a small laugh, trying to lighten the mood and move the subject of conversation to something else, but Gilbert was unconvinced. _

"_It wouldn't matter to me either way." Prussia had shrugged his shoulders. "Antonio's a good kid. I'm just wondering, would you say it if it wasn't true?"_

_And Prussia was a good ally, and Prussia was a friend, but Germania's ancient blood flowed through his veins, and there would always be a wall between them that they could never quite reach over. "He is, Gilbert. " France's words were cold and firm. "Is it that hard to think that I would have fathered one with her? Is it that terrible to you?" Gilbert doesn't answer, and for a long time no one says anything. Prussia's silence, however, speaks volumes._

'_No, I don't believe he is.'_

'_Yes, it is that hard for me to believe.'_

_And with the last one…_

'_No. I don't believe that it would be that terrible.'_

_And because he honestly believes that, he lets the issue go. It's a small thing, but one Francis will always be grateful for._

But the world was not full of people like Gilbert.

All of it was no longer an issue, and Austria had no right in acting like it mattered to him anyways: he had never tried to help the boy in all of the years before, never tried helping anyone if it couldn't profit himself. There was no point in him starting now. And with Reina, Austria had always _hated _her. There was no need to listen to anything the smaller man said, since his prejudices would never leave.

_And speaking of Reina…_

It was hard to describe what they were now. Their kings were uneasy partners, their kingdoms beside one another. And themselves? She was the mother of the boy whom he claimed to be his child. She was the woman, above all other women, who had a say in his life, whose influence was unmatched by any other.

_And as themselves…_

It was uncomfortable, thinking like that. He far preferred spending his company with her, their fighting all but ceased as he pushed others out of his life. Madalena had no words to say on the issue, and for that he was glad: he would not have listened to them anyways. He wondered, at times, on the nights that he spent away from her, if his brother may have felt the same thing when he had been beside her, worshipping her with his childish innocence before his young life was ended. At first it was a horrible thought, but as time went on, he found he minded it less and less.

_And sometimes, and those times he tried his best to forget, to push them out of his mind sometimes with drink and more often in her arms, he wondered if it was like how father felt, he who had claimed her first all those years ago._

He hated that thought. He hated it more than almost anything else.

_He hated it because he knew the answer._

_And he knew what he was doing, if not in his mind than in his heart._

He was doing the one thing that his younger brother had not lived long enough to do, the one thing that in all of father's sinful life, he had never quite dared to commit. The one thing in his life, that Rome would dare not do.

He was raising her, not to the status of queen, and not that of a lover.

He was pulling her towards the position of wife. And she was letting him.

God save him, he was, and there was no turning back.

* * *

_Meanwhile_

Austria says nothing when Francis finally takes his leave, his eyes half-lidded as he sat alone. The doors behind him close without a word, the servants wordlessly carrying out their orders to keep the room closed off to the main hall even as the Frenchman impeded them in their task.

The heavy clicking of heels that is the staccato of France's boots can be heard even with the doors closed, and Austria counts them silently as his other hand comes to wrap around his injured wrist. He doesn't bother removing his gloves or loosening the cuff of his sleeve, knowing that there will only be light bruising at worst, and certainly nothing worth worrying about. He rubs at the injured flesh separated by layers of cloth, counting each footfall as his breaths remained steady.

His count reaches seventy four before another door within the parlor opens, the sound unremarkable in the silent room. At first there is nothing, and then slowly a lanky figure makes its way out, its footsteps soft as if wary of the return of the angered Frenchman.

Austria doesn't look up when he hears the movement, nor does he acknowledge the other when he approaches. His hands seek out his own tea in front of him, and he sips it silently, no longer finding pleasure in the subtle flavor that it once possessed but needing to keep his hands occupied: he didn't want to present any unneeded weakness in front of the other, and desired neither his contempt nor pity.

He himself is, for the most part, being equally ignored, and the other takes his time in making his way over, crossing behind Austria's back in a familiar manner that would normally in breech of etiquette in front of others but was blasé between the two of them at this point. Finally, the other makes his way into Austria's narrow line of sight, and the humorless smirk upon his face tells Roderich most of what he needs to know.

"My my, what a little temper good ol'Francis has nowadays, eh? Maybe its something in the bloodline, I'd hate to see how it manifests in little Portugal if the first two were that bad-"

"So," Austria's bored tone interrupts Prussia's teasing, "I am safe in assuming that you overheard?" There is still a hint of fussy disdain that is the hallmark of Roderich's voice, yet there is no bite in it at this moment. The other slumps into the previously occupied seat, giving a lazy nod to acknowledge to other's question. Austria's eyes narrow slightly, and Prussia groans lightly, as if he was fulfilling some deep-seated obligation that honor could not possibly allow him to ignore by responding with words.

"Yeah, yeah, I heard everything. Even if you could hardly bring yourself to go above a whisper most of the time, he pissed about enough to give me the general idea." He smirks, "Too bad he saw through your little act, deception is not one of your better talents, you know. You should stick to the things that you're good at, like drinking tea and letting other people fight your battles."

Austria ignores his last statement, focusing upon the first point. "Good. I would hate to have to repeat everything to you when such action could be so easily avoided." He finally draws his full attention onto Prussia, pushing his tea away from him.

"So, have you now a better understanding of my concerns?"

Prussia snickers at him, but it comes out half-heartedly. "I'm not sure, little master. Should I be worried?"

Austria frowns lightly at him. "You have heard the conversation between the two of us. Would you need to hear it again, though I don't believe France will be entertaining my hospitality for much longer..."

"Yeah, that he won't. Damn near made one of your little maids cry when he almost pushed her out of the way, and he claims to be such a gentleman!" Prussia shakes his head in mock distress, leaning against one of his elbows upon the table. "He's lucky he has a lay specially singled out for him, or he would be forced into noble celibacy. I sure my dear friend would not survive the experience."

Gilbert's humor was as crude as it always was, but the last part is more upsetting in the context of his last conversation. Still, he will get to that point in a bit. "And where is your ward, at the moment? You're normally hesitant to leave him with your king-"

Prussia scowls at him. "Yeah, shut up. Of course I brought him along. I ran into Elizabeta earlier, and she was more than happy to play with him." A small smile twitches upon Prussia's face, and Austria doesn't have the heart to point it out. Prussia lets out a small laugh. "The poor kid, my little brother's nerves need to steady a bit before I take him back to visit his little wife, he's not as partial to sea travel yet." Austria nods absently as this, frowning slightly at the other's small slip but ignoring it. He draws small comfort from the fact that there were people like Gilbert's adopted brother in a world where a nation as proud as Francis could allow his own mania to slowly consume him alive.

Still, it would be best not to ignore the main matter at hand.

"Has the same message been delivered to your people?" Prussia frowns for a moment as if lost in thought, and then nods. "I guess, pretty much the same thing, except we didn't have any personal envoys paying us visits because some pissy aristocrat kept crying foul, but yeah, other than that, it was the same." Austria nods, ignoring the bait yet again, and the expressions on both of their faces darken.

"This goes without saying, that the entirety of our conversation, before and after this point, will be withheld from third parties, is that not understood?"

The scowl is back on Prussia's face, but it is mostly for show. Just by showing up there, at Roderich's precious palace at the aristocrat's request, he had agreed. He knows that Austria wouldn't have sent for him if he could help it, and if there was something that was bothering him enough to call upon his on and off enemy and almost friend, he couldn't just ignore him. Besides, Francis _was_ his friend, or at least the closest thing that could pass for one. As was the woman's son, even if he barely got to see the boy who was slowly growing into a man.

And if something concerned the two of them, then he was **very **much interested. It was good to know that there was someone else who was becoming worried about France.

"Do you know what is going on within-"

"-the new continent?" Austria scoffs quietly, and Prussia pulls another face. "You know as well as I do where my borders lie. I would be foolish to infringe upon the liberties and rights that the eldest of Francis' _darling _sisters." Now its Austria's turn to make a face. "I do not believe that Francis knows the full extent of what she is doing, nor does he want to. Of all of the nations within Europe, the only one who would know what is truly going on-"

"-Is little Portugal," Prussia interrupts, "and I'm fairly certain that she is no more motivated to open her mouth upon the matter than the old harlot herself." He snickers, but there is a hollow tone within it that seems more nervous than amused. "The only ones who would be saying anything aren't in any position to talk." He shakes his head, and with his face turned downward Austria can't see his eyes. "Those poor bastards."

"The entirety of my concerns do not lay solely upon that matter." Prussia's head jerks up at Austria's voice, and he doesn't much like the tone that the aristocrat was using. "And pray tell, why not?" His voice almost perfectly mimics Austria's, and there is a slight flush to the other's face at hearing the words directed at him.

"It is not our concern whether or not the woman is…_mistreating _the entities that are currently under her command." And that is more than just an understatement, Prussia thinks, considering just what has been said about Reina and the children whom she dominates. At the very least, she had a long history of shutting her own child up in her kingdom, keeping him like a unwanted pet that she was unable to kill but allowed to hate with all of her being.

'_Which brings the point back to Francis...'_

Austria continues as Prussia kept his thoughts to himself. "What concerns me, and what should concern yourself, is that France's negligence with her actions point to the fact that not only is he not able to hold sway over her, even with one of his own upon her throne, but that he does not even realize how closely he is binding himself to her. Tell me, Gilbert, how long to you think it will be until one of France's kings gets it into his head that a permanent allegiance with the Spanish Empire could be strengthened by just combining the two?"

"It says in the compact itself," Prussia remarks dryly, "that the two cannot be joined. Just because he's fucking her doesn't mean that that has changed."

"But has not he himself have changed? Can you honestly tell me that the man you met four hundred years ago would ever have allowed himself to be backed into a corner like this?"

And he doesn't, but Prussia doesn't want to say that out loud. Francis has changed. They _all _have changed. It can't be helped, whether its from the alliances and wars that they took part in or just the passage of time itself. Still…he had once believed that Francis had hated the woman, truly _despised _her, blood ties and all. They had lost touch in a while, and when the Ottoman Empire expanded in the far south, and the Byzantine Empire had fell, he had had little time to engage in young friendships with the older man. Now, he wonders what he could have missed in all of those years that might have brought Francis down to this.

He's quite for a long while, and Austria accepts this as an answer. "I just want you to keep an eye on him, if you can. I don't know just what may happen, if anything at all, but…" His words trail off, his eyes cast down before him.

"You just want us to be prepared, right?" The cocky tone is back in Prussia's words, but neither one of them are smiling. Austria nods lightly. "Whatever happens, just be sure to keep an eye on him. The son too as well."

The frown in back on Prussia's face. "You really think that that kid's his son?" Austria's shoulders shrug lightly. "It's been about a 100 years since he acknowledged that, though there hasn't been any other word upon it since. What difference would it make, whether it is his or he just claims it?"

'_Not much…' _Prussia thinks. Not much, except that the kid doesn't look anything like him. _'Not that France looks like her either', _Austria had countered in the past, when Prussia had first voiced his doubts upon the issue. Still, it was an awfully _convenient _excuse for allying himself with his sister, even while her kingship was still under the rule of Austria's Hapsburgs. An awfully good excuse indeed.

_What reason would Francis have to lie about that?_

He couldn't quite tell, and that questioned lingered in the back of his mind.

"So do you understand, Prussia?" And with a return of their nation names, Gilbert knows that their conversation is over. Austria won't bear to have him stay in the palace any longer than a day, even with his darling younger brother in tow. Gilbert knows this, and even if it would make Hungary happy to see the two of them, he will still take his leave: they were enemies, in their own way, and that would have to be heeded to. This cooperation here was just, just…

_A warning. One that Roderich couldn't bear to keep to himself, because he worries about all of us so, even with the thought of war lingering before them._

He just smirks and leers lazily at Austria. "Of course. I'll be keeping an eye out on ol'Francis."

'_Though I pray I don't have to.'_

* * *

**Historical Notes: **Takes place in the years right before the Wars of Austrian Succession, when the alliance between the French and Austrian Empires was fraying. The Hapsburg monarchs, which had long ruled in Austria and as Holy Roman Emperors, had a bloodline in Spain after the deaths of King Fernando and Queen Isabella. At this time, with Hapsburgs monarchs upon the Spanish throne, Austria held a large sway in Spanish affairs. This lasted until the death of Charles II in 1700, in which in the ensuing successional mess the Bourbons House of France was able to land the Spanish throne. There was much confusion and anger over this, and eventually the Pacte de Famille was created, a compact which allowed the Bourbon succession as long as the throne of Spain and France remained separate. Austria, already wary of France and their subsequent loss of influence over Spain, watched this with suspicion. These suspicions would remain mostly unfounded until the French Revolution…

From 1580 to 1640 AD, the crowns of Spain and Portugal were united, forming the Iberian Union. It initially after a successional crisis in Portugal, and weakening within the Portuguese Empire, which was exploited by Spain. In the end, the union was mainly beneficial to both, though Portugal eventually fought and received their independence from it. Of course, France's memories are of the Spanish Armada's defeat in 1588. The Armada launched from Lisboa (Lisbon, the capital of Portugal). While the overall Anglo-Spanish was ended in a draw that favored Spain, the defeat was still a blow to Spanish pride, and changed naval warfare from that point on.

**Next Up: **How can you go home, when the only home that you knew has been lost within the sands of time? Bessarabia, 1903


	22. Bessarabia

**20100721 Update:** Here you go. Know that any grammatical mistakes are your fault. Why? _Because_…lying is the most fun a girl can have without taking off her clothes. Also, things have been pretty hectic, getting ready for Nanjing, so expect 23 by next Monday, but know that until mid-Sept, updates will be mildly sporadic [that is, unless you _like _unbeta-ed works...*shiver*]

* * *

**Everlasting Night**

**Title: **Prelude to Conflict  
**Chapter 22: **Bessarabia  
**Characters: **Russia and Israel  
**Rating: **PG-13  
**Summary: **How can you go back to a home that isn't there?

_Kishinev_, _capital of the Russian province of Bessarabia, late September, 1903 AD_

"You must be gone before the end of the year."

That is what the Russian man had said, the words spoken with a dispassionate ease. Israel's fingers move over his worn suitcase, the cracked leather underneath his fingertips having seen better days. There wasn't much of a point in asking for better, though, since there were more important stakes at hand, and everyone would have to do without.

The tips of his fingers move over towards the thin metal casings around its clasps, his thumbs flipping them open with a soft clink of the aged brass. He pushes the top open, easing the old hinges up gently like an old friend. There wasn't much space within it, but it was more than enough: over the years, he had learned to take little with him, because there would always be much to leave behind.

His shirtsleeves are rolled up to his elbows, the once-white fabric now a dull cream color. It onsets his skin color well, his darker tones from years of living in the deserts still not gone after all of these centuries. A hand reaches up, brushing a few errant strands of his dark mahogany hair from his eyes. It has grown longer now, though it had been much longer years ago. He barely recognized himself now, just as few outside of his people did...

* * *

_Late April_

"You understand, that this," Russia waves his hand in front of him, "this is an uncomfortable position for me to take." And if it was, Russia's face barely showed it. His shoulders were square, his posture relaxed as he leaned back in Israel's chair. Israel himself had preferred to stand, aware that this was anything but a social visit.

"And we have had," Russia continues, "an _agreement _between us for some time." He pauses again, letting himself lean further back without upsetting his bearing. "Do not think that I take pleasure in reneging on it."

And he doesn't, not that Israel had thought so in the first place. From the few times that they had met privately before, Russia had displayed a fairly limited range of emotions, his face rarely deviating from his normal placid mien. He was wearing that face now, even after everything that had occurred.

At least he had the decency to look the other man in the eyes. The others never did. Normally, they just sent soldiers to do the job for them. And it was all the same: violence was less ambiguous than words anyways.

* * *

Into the suitcase, there are but few things that he packs. A few shirts, packed between his small collection of books to prevent wrinkling, as well as a few pairs of trousers, the normally immaculately clean fabric marred with dust from the last few weeks of riots. He would wash them again, but there isn't enough time or enough clean water to spare.

Such a thing is frivolous, pointless. What did it matter, when the next few weeks of traveling will just make them dirty again? Where he was going, there would be other priorities.

* * *

There is another break in the conversation, and a soft sigh escapes the lips of the taller man. "If circumstances were, _different_, perhaps other measures could be taken." But circumstances **won't **be different. 3,000 years of forced exile has taught Israel that the circumstances never really change, only the timing in which the events occur. If anything, he had expected something like this almost a century earlier. He was not so ungrateful that his people had had a little peace, even if it was here.

Russia lets his hands join together in front of him, the movement controlled as little else of him moved. "However, the two of us can clearly see that things will not change, even if these, _unpleasantries_, pass."

And 'unpleasantries' is not the right word to use, but it is not like any other one would be better. It's a bland, empty word, the kind of word that substitutes in place of actual meaning, but Israel has never really had any faith in words. How many times, in period of strength or in hours of need, had he garnered the assurances and promises of other nations? How many?

And how many times, had they granted him safe passage in their lands, or swore to maintain the peace that so many lives had been shed for, only for it to be for naught?

He could count them, but what would be the point? There will always be another one waiting along the line to add to the count.

It's not like this was so unexpected.

* * *

Also into the suitcase goes his set of Torah scrolls, the parchment and brass handles worn with age but well cared for, as was everything else that he owned.

He turns back to his bed, the thin mattress covered by thinner blankets bearing a few more of his effects upon his covers. There really is no point in bringing them, but he will pack one of his blankets as well, no so much for himself, but there would be many young children who would be traveling with the rest of them: it would not hurt to take it.

He was leaving enough behind anyways.

* * *

"I cannot _force _you to go, and you know that." The words are smooth, unchallenging, except Russia very well **could** force him to go, just like the others had before. The man before him is not exactly known for his passivity. The Russian was just saying those words because he would rather _**not **_force Israel to leave.

What both of them know, and what Russia won't say, is that if Israel leaves, by himself, and not chased out like the pariah that he has been since the day his people were born…

…_is that, if he leaves, his people will follow…_

And they will. They always do.

It is really the only logical solution to the problem the two find themselves in. Russia cannot let him stay, and Israel's people cannot stay without being slaughtered. If Russia truly put the force of his armies behind driving Israel and his people out of his lands, it would mean that both of them would just have more to lose, and it would make the already horrific public display even worse.

And of course, other countries would try to get involved. The normally quiet, passive observers would finally find themselves called to action, driven by public outcry and the thirst for political gain. In a collective whole, they would condemn Russia's actions, vilifying him as they had done for centuries, and in the end, would ever so tragically find themselves unable to shelter any of Israel's people. What was another dead Jew to them, when they had already done so much to slaughter his people?

Such false kindness.

Such empty sympathy.

Israel wished he could drown them all in it.

* * *

There are few items left on the bed now. The few things that he had changed his mind on have already been moved back onto the desk, since there is no point in replacing them upon the worn bookcase. Perhaps the next occupant of the room will find use for it, or perhaps it only will serve to stoke some small fire in the brazier. It doesn't matter.

* * *

Israel finds himself lost in his thoughts for a moment, and Russia's deep voice brings him back to the present.

"If you would like me to provide transportation for you, either a land or sea route out of this place, I wish you would let me know at this time." And he already knows the answer, even though he still asks the question. It had already been a heavy toll on Israel's pride, having to accept shelter in this strange land so far from where he had once called home. To accept more charity, even if some would believe he was entitled to it, it could not be done. He could not keep killing more of himself.

"No." And besides, it is not as if Russia is proposing to provide safe passage to all of his people. Israel is sure that many more will still die in this exodus that they are forced to repeat over and over again. "I will find my own way." And he always does. At the very least, necessity has been a great teacher to him.

A better teacher than he has been to his people.

Russia's lips purse for a second before he nods his head. "Very well."

The heavy silence returns between them, and for a while Israel believes that the conversation will be over. Eventually, Russia shifts, setting his hands upon the desk that Israel will be leaving behind, straightening his back as his eyes looked back upon the other. "Do you know where you will go?"

Israel fights the urge to roll his shoulders, instead settling for shifting his weight between his two feet. He hates this question most of all, though few of his former landlords ask it. "I cannot say that I quite have a definitive plan as to where I will be recreating a place of residence." Again, another understatement. In the past three thousand years, from the shores of the Dead Sea to this place so far from his old home, there has already been a need to find someplace else.

Where could he go now?

Where _is _there to go? Europe has already made up its mind to deny him. He knows that those in the far south would be no better, the Muslims still bitter from the holy wars that the Christian north had brought upon them. Would he be forced out of the continent, driven so far east into the Orient where there were strange gods, and even stranger people who would have no reason to allow him sanctuary?

Where? Where could he go when all doors seemed closed?

* * *

His hands alight over the few books that remain outside of his suitcase. He debates putting them in, even picking one up as if to place it alongside the others already packed. However, his hand stops, his fingers feeling the worn leather that the book is bound in. It is old, and it has memories for him, but he puts it down all the same. Calloused fingertips rib against the cover one more time before he pushes it away.

'_Tanakh.'_

He won't regret leaving it. He's memorized it anyways. Besides, it is a modern thing, this one, some cheap parchment bound in cowhide instead of a proper set of scrolls. He has no use for such modern things. He hates this modern world.

* * *

There is silence once again between them, and Israel doesn't believe that there is an answer that could break it. Russia thinks differently.

"Would it be…" the other man pauses, his eyes shifting towards his joined hands and away from Israel for a moment. "If I may, would it be too presumptuous of me, to make a recommendation as to where you may find future lodgings?" With their eye contact already broken, Israel lets his eyes wander along the wall, looking out through the room's sole window out into that normally looked out into the courtyard below. From this angle, across the room from it, one couldn't see the worried, frantic of people below, nor could one recognize that this was one of the few windows that escaped destruction in the days after the murder.

There was just a dull array of gray clouds to be seen. It was as if the sun would rather hide. But he could hear them in his head. The panicked fluttering of thousands of hearts, the worried whispers that traveled from man to man. He could always hear his people. He could always hear them, and it never stopped.

But there is an issue at hand, and the other needs an answer. "No." His words are soft, rubbed smooth by the passage of time. "I am sure that if you have a suggestion, it will do me little further harm to hear it." Russia's mouth tightens for a second, but he lets that last statement slide. As the one holding the position of power, he has done an admirable job in not exploiting it. Back in the day, when Greece was barely more than a child and Rome not even a dream yet upon the Mediterranean, there had been two giants in his world.

And they had been cruel.

* * *

His eyes alight upon the last few items. He sees his kippah, waiting patiently on top of his folded tallit. The smaller one that he normally wears is already on, hidden as usual underneath his coat which he wore so often in this land where the cold came early and sunk deep into one's bones. He places both of them in neatly, not so much for his own sake but because he people prefer.

It would hard to be the state of Israel if one was not Orthodox in the Jewish ways. He would play the role as long as it was needed of him. It didn't make any difference to him. They all have their burdens to bear.

* * *

Russia's eyes are half lidded now, focusing upon his hands as his words were directed to the other. "We both know that resettling in Europe is not an option for you. Of my few true allies who remain within it, I could put in good word with Serbia, but I doubt that she will accept the whole of your population." And Russia knows that there is not even a point in asking her, for even if she was younger than him, she was harsh and she was cold: asking her to harbor more exiled Jews would make her even less cooperative, and more belligerent. Besides, the place where he had in mind was quite far from Belgrade indeed.

"And I wouldn't be so unreasonable as to suggest someplace farther in Asia. I know that this journey will not be easy on any of your people, and even if there was a place out there where you could find some semblance of peace, I would doubt that most of them could reach it." Israel nods, lightly, but says nothing. He wouldn't want to go there anyways, not that his preferences have mattered before. He waits for Russia to continue.

"This all goes without saying, that a return to the old lands is not possible." It's Israel's turn to frown, though he says nothing. It was one thing to know that a return to the old holy lands would be nothing but a bloodbath for his people. That much was true. The aging Ottoman Empire had never had any pity for his cause (not that he would have wanted it), and few of his people would desire his presence. That was true as well.

But it was still his land. It had always been and would always be. Who was Russia to say that he could **not** return?

Everyone needed a home.

"Nonetheless, I have a suggestion." Russia's eyes move up to meet Israel's, and they stay their hold. "Money would be an issue, of course, but that is nothing new. Besides, you have a fair many people already there, and families could always help one another." Israel's frown deepens, but his eyes maintain their deadpan look. He does not interrupt Russia.

"The main thing is, I do not think that this would just be a new place for your people to find shelter in. I do not see this as a temporary solution." The vagueness in his words are a tad frustrating, and if Russia has a point Israel would very much like to hear it and go on his way to start packing. For his part, Russia's eyes look away, and they do not return to Israel as he continues.

"I know the nation who resides in those lands. To a degree, I even know her personally. I am not saying that she will take in your people for my sake." His hands break apart, and they rest listlessly upon the desktop. "But if you ask her for sanctuary, I know that she will give it to you. To both yourself and your people, as much as she can."

Russia's eyes move up from his hands, but he does not look at Israel; instead, he looks past him, eyes focusing upon the door that he had came through less than an hour before. He'll be going through it again in less than ten minutes, and soon enough neither one will ever go through it ever again.

His tone softens. "She is young. Very young. Hardly older than her own children. As is such, she does not hold old memories like we do here. She would take you, as she would take anyone else into her country."

And Israel supposes that Russia expects him to be reassured by that. He doesn't see why he should be.

"And unlike here, where we both knew from the beginning that this would not last." And they both did, though they still went through the motions anyways, "I know that she would not ask you to leave, and you would never have to."

Israel would like Russia to stop. He doesn't want him to finish.

"I know this is hard for you." And he doesn't, and he never will. Russia will never understand what it's like, to be treated as some sort of beggar to be handed off from one person to the next. He doesn't, and they never, and they _**never**_ will.

"So if you would rather I make the necessary communications with Washington, you will not have to ask her yourself. She is young, but not so dense as to be wholly ignorant of the situation."

He smiles softly, and Israel supposes that he doesn't realize it. Russia goes on. "For the time being, she will not ask any questions, other than if you would prefer New York to DC this time of year."

* * *

At last, he looks down upon his work, seeing all of his personal effects neatly folded and tucked away in the suitcase as if they weren't anything at all. It's funny, looking at everything, and despite the changes in baggage over the years, it seems like he is carrying less and less each time this happens. He doesn't quite know why.

It is not like he is leaving a trail of himself along the way, leaving little traces of his identity at all of the places where he is forced to leave. Things, like memories, just seem to fade away.

And only bitterness remains.

* * *

"So that is your suggestion?" Russia's head jerks up, but his large frame encased within his heavy coat masks it. "This is all that you wanted to tell me?" Russia seems momentarily confused, but nods. "Yes, I believe that I have covered everything that remained between us."

Israel lets out a thin breath in between his teeth. His jaw tightens. "You want me to take some child's pity, and pretend that it is not charity?"

One of Russia's hands move up towards his head, his fingers rubbing against his temple. "Iyov, you're upset. I didn't expect you to overjoyed by this, but _please _listen-"

"I do not believe that we are quite on the basis on using personal names, _Russia._" Israel's words are quiet, his Russian thick with his Hebrew accent and with a faint hint of bitterness throughout his words. "So please refrain from using mine."

Russia's face tightens, but he settles for just clasping his hands together: he can't lash now, not when he has been trying so hard not to be the monster half the world believes him to be. "_Israel_, this is the most I can do to help you with. My people will not help you, and no one else will to take you, and-"

"And so you pawn me off to a little girl," Israel sneers, "one across the Atlantic who doesn't know any better, and you expect that she won't turn me out because she is too soft in the heart and in the head to-"

"_Shut up." _Russia's normally pale face has gone an unfortunate shade of puce, and Israel could feel the other man's anger rising. "You talk as if you know everything about everyone, _Israel_." His name has a silken feel to it, the word deceptively soft as the other man's face tried to stave off its anger.

"When you live long enough, you see everything there is to know about people."

The sides of Russia's lips quirk up, and he fights the urge to close the distance between them with his fist. "And here you think you are so old, _Israel_." He sniggers, trying to suppress the noise before hardening his features again. "Outliving your contemporaries isn't much of an accomplishment, is it?"

"And neither is trying to kill your own." Russia's face darkens, but he is already regaining his composure. "Know that this can be much worse than what it already is. Try and not get the rest of your people killed."

* * *

He slams the top of the suitcase shut, almost startling himself with the noise. It is not doing the worn hinges any favors, but it will last for a few years longer. He flips the clasps closed, his fingers lingering upon the worn brass. With the motion of closing them, he had already finalized what he would and would not bring. They hold their place for a few seconds longer, and then he pulls them away, stepping away from the bed before he can change his mind and try to take something else. There is no room for sentimentality when it comes to material possessions.

And there is no time either. There is only an hour before he departs.

* * *

He stands up, roughly pushing the chair back under the desk that will only be Israel's for a few more days. He makes his way across the room, his footsteps too soft for a man of his height. Israel doesn't move from his position, and Russia just walks around him, passing so close that their shoulders almost touch. He doesn't even need to go above a whisper: Israel hears him clearly enough.

"Since you're so set on being on your own, I will still be making that call. It is up to you as to whether or not you show up, but I will warn you: do not squander her kindness, for you are not going to find it from anyone else."

"If I need a little girl to cry for me, I can just go outside: plenty of them are crying for their dead parents. Your people are so cruel in their pettiness."

"Sympathy is not pity. Let her help you."

Israel turns his head, letting his dark hazel eyes set upon the other man. "One of these days, you are going to be on your knees, Russia. You will be on them, and then you will see just how much you will enjoy the charity of others."

"I hope you enjoy your choice, Israel." Russia's feet guide him to the door, and he holds it open with one large, gloved hand. "Because you will not be the only one who lives or dies by it." He moves away from Israel, and gets a few steps before Israel's hand latches itself around of the trailing ends of his scarf.

"What are you-" The words are spit out, and Israel has only a small window of opportunity in order to avoid the larger man's fist closing around his throat. He draws his face closer to Russia, and says but one sentence.

* * *

His arm reaches out to his coat, picking up the woolen jacket from where it hung over his chair. It's old, but it's warm, and he'll be needing it. At this point, so late in spring, it warm enough just to go out with a long sleeved shirt and thin vest staving off the slight September chill.

He lets his coat hang over his arm, and with the other grasps the handle of his suitcase. It is time to go.

* * *

"_L'Shana Haba'a B'yerushalayim."_

Russia freezes for a moment, and in the next shoves Israel away from him, the other man's smaller body stumbling into the desk as Russia's other hand held onto the length of scarf above of where Israel had been holding onto. His eyes are cold, and any sympathy he may have had for the nation is long gone.

"It will be your funeral." And with that he is gone, no doubt headed back to Moscow where he can put this behind him.

* * *

He had already had meetings with some of the leaders of the community, and he already knew what most of their plans were. Many had sent letters, desperate pleas sent across the Atlantic to family members they had barely though of before, who were now instrumental in getting them safe passage to America. He did not begrudge them for that, since the continued survival of his people was paramount over such a petty thing like pride. Pride wouldn't keep the mobs away, not with their knives and bullets and their unending hate.

He gives one look back at his desk. Not too long ago, there was a small stack of letters there, the scuffed envelopes seeming to have passed from many hands before it reached its destination. The sender apparently had enough sense to write the address in Russian as well as English, the letters slightly shaky but legible. He has more than a slight notion as to who has sent them, and he supposes Russia fulfilled his promise out of spite more than anything else.

It doesn't matter.

Those letters now are a pile of ash, sitting on the bottom of the brazier. He hopes his silence is enough of an answer for the two of them, and if not, well…

They'll know soon enough.

With that final look, he turns away, and makes his way through his door for the last time. His footsteps echo hollowly down the rickety stairwell, the building empty save for himself. He makes his way by himself, alone, as he always has been. But it's only temporary: he has some of his men waiting for him outside in the courtyard. Their train will be leaving soon, and from there, well…

"_L'Shana Haba'a B'yerushalayim."_ He whispers to himself.

Besides, it has been such a long time since he had seen his younger sister. She may be parading as an Arab now, and even accepted as one, but he knew better. It was time to go home, and no one would get in the way of him reclaiming it.

'_Next year in Jerusalem…'_

Why not this one?

* * *

**Historical Notes: **Chişinău, the capital of modern day Moldova, was in the early part of the last century named Kishinev. It was at that time the capital of the Province of Bessarabia, which was then a part of the Russian Empire. It had a native Jewish population, but immigration [from other parts of Europe] increased during the 18th century, especially after the Russo-Turkish War [1806-1812]. As such, it had a fairly large and well-adjusted Jewish population that flourished, and the different ethnic groups in the region lived in relative peace. In fact, almost half of the Jewish population lived in Kishinev, roughly 50,000 out of the population o f 110,000 people.

However, come April 6th of 1903, a young [Christian] Russian boy was found murdered in Dubossary, which was only 25 miles from Kishinev. The child had been murdered by a relative, that soon was clear enough, but a Russian Anti-Semitic newspaper, Bessarabetz, hinted strongly that the boy had been murdered by Jews; another paper, the Svet, claimed that Jews had used the boy for a blood libel [it was alleged that he had been killed for his blood to be used in the preparation of Matzo].

Regardless, these were all obvious lies.

What happened next was the Kishinev Pogrom, which was three days of rioting against Jews within the city. 47-49 Jews were killed, with 92 severely wounded, and another 500 wounded. Over 700 houses were looted and destroyed, people from their own communities trying to kill their neighbors. There was no attempt by the Russia military or the police to stop the riots until the end of the third day, though it is debated as whether or not there was an order given to halt their action. Only twenty-four men were charged, and only two of them received sentences above two years.

These events captured the foreign media's attention, and became one of the rallying points for the early Zionist movement. Tens of thousands of Jews left Bessarabia for the United States, many of them joining family members who had immigrated there before them. Aside from America, the other main destination was, for the more heavily involved Zionists, Palestine, which was still under Ottoman rule. This was at the precipice of the violence that would soon overcome the region with the [re]creation of the state of Israel.

'L'Shanah Haba'ah Birushalayim', or 'L'Shana Haba'a B'yerushalayim', means 'Next year in Jerusalem.' It is said at the end of the Passover Seder, and was born out of the Diaspora communities, implying that someday they will be able to return to the holy lands. The Tanakh is the canon of the Hebrew Bible.

**Author's Notes:** As most of us well know, Israelis =/= Palestinians. Nonetheless, their lands are pretty much smack dab on top of each other. Palestine, his 'sister', can only be expected to not welcome his return, nor would any of the Arab states. More happy fun time ensues! And do you think Israel is a little too cranky? He's an old man, a contemporary of Kemet and Persia, and way older than the Caliphate. Besides, how would you feel, getting forced out of country to country, being treated like a pariah in your own homeland? I'd be a little cranky too.

**Israel: **_Iyov Aviv_, his surname Hebrew for 'Spring' and his given name for the biblical figure Job. Who was Job? Biblical proof that God is a d*ck.

**Up Next: **War makes for strange bedfellows, indeed. Constantinople, 1855


	23. Eski Yaralar

**Everlasting Night**

**Title: **Prelude to Conflict  
**Chapter 23: **Eski Yaralar  
**Characters: **The Ottoman Empire, France, and England  
**Rating: **PG-13  
**Summary: **Alliances may come and go, but hatred is forever.

_Constantinople, July, 1855 AD_

He glanced over at the clock again, his green eyes wearily regarding the ostentatious timepiece with mistrust. It was hard to believe that only fifteen minutes had passed since he had last looked at it; it was as if the blistering heat had been able to bake the very passage of time until minutes felt like hours, and days felt like years.

England's thin arms were crossed against his chest as he leaned against the wall. He was leaning next to one of the long windows within the room, each one running from the length of the floor to the ceiling, towering over him in a way that made him feel even shorter than he was. He fidgeted a bit, adjusting his shoulders against the hard wood of the wall, not quite wanting to sit down but being unwilling to keep standing stock still like a fool. That had gotten old over an hour ago, when it had started to become _abundantly _clear that the Turk wasn't coming anytime soon.

The mid-afternoon sun was streaming in from the long row of windows that ran along the eastern wall, the July heat stifling in the enclosed room. With all of the western trappings within it, no doubt an attempt of the sultanate to appease foreign guests, it was a vast assortment of modern fashions from the continent mixed in incompletely with pieces that seemed to have been here for centuries. It was somewhat beautiful, a tad grotesque, and overall it did nothing to make him feel any more at ease. It still seemed to be little more than a stable, letting them sweat out as the Turkish dignitaries enjoyed trellised verandas that looked out over the city.

Not that he cared. Not much, really.

Let the Turkish bastards laugh all they wanted: the sooner he was out of this burdensome land, the better. They could keep their craggy earth and their seas: he preferred his isles and the open ocean any day. At least there he felt like he could breathe. Here, it just…

He just wanted to go home.

The only reason why he and the other were here were to help facilitate some of the, _changes,_ that would be required in operating policy from here on in. Nakhimov was dead, wonderful news for their side, but Sevastopol had yet to fall. Even if it was only a matter of time, thousands of his men were already dead, and France had lost almost four times that many. It seemed like each time that they won, it was not much of a victory worth having.

And if it wasn't the Russians (whom he currently had the displeasure at being at war with), it was the Greeks, who were in some form of the word, an '_ally_' to their side. He didn't know much about the Greek nation himself, but many of his people were '_secretly' _trying to coax their remaining brethren, who still lived under the Ottoman rule, to rebel. It did little but further destabilize things within the region, dividing the Turk's attention and forcing his European allies to make up the difference. It was already bad enough that France and he himself had to step in to protect their interests, but to have to keeping propping this Empire up? He really didn't see the need for this. He had his own problems at home anyways.

All in all, this war was nothing but a big headache, one that he wished he hadn't been talked into. Surely, he would have to kick France's ass for this. It was _unmistakably _in due order for his troubles…

His eyes shift over to his, '_companion_', and he's not surprised to see that there is nothing new to report. France was slowly walking around the perimeter of the ballroom/stable that they were in, loftily admiring some of furnishings that he walked past. His hands clasped loosely behind his back as he too avoided his companion. Sometimes he would stop in front of a piece, never mind if it was a painting or an ornately framed looking glass, table or a chair. Everything he walked past, and nothing did he touch.

Like a doctor walking through a row of contagious patients, he kept his hands to himself.

His footsteps were light, and the soft clicking of his heels were the only sounds to prevent silence from taking hold in the room. Not even the shifting hands of the clock made a sound, as if to fool the room's occupants into losing track of time. The sound of Francis' footsteps were mildly annoying, the noise ever-repeating against the polished marble floor, but it was comforting in a strange way, a noise that sounded the same whether he heard it in London or in Paris. Besides, undoubtedly this caesura would soon pass, once their 'hosts' came. The Turkish envoy would be here, and he and France's own men would be called from their rooms, everyone finally able to get down to business.

Until then, however, they would just have to wait.

He fidgets again, and eventually finds a way to rest his shoulders without having to fear his feet slipping out from under him. It is comfortable, relatively at least, and he does not notice it when his breathing begins to even out, his eyelids slowly beginning to droop. The heat seemed to be quietly coaxing him into finding escape, and the way that seemed most logical was with sleep.

He was only planning on resting his eyes for a little bit, trying to will himself into believing that it was only a hot day in London, or even Liverpool, and when he opens his eyes he'll be back in his own land, surrounded by his people and not by this distasteful land. It's only supposed to be for a few minutes, since God knows he can't trust France to deal with anything if the Turks came before he was ready, but still…

He's only lightly dozing, but he is lost to the world around him, the sound of France's footsteps fading away as did the suffocating heat of the day. As the minutes passed into yet another hour, he is too far gone to notice when that light cadence finally comes around to him, the steps finally pausing as their bearer ceased his revolution. Once again, there is silence; England's softly heaving chest and the clock's hands the only things that moved within the room. Silence. A few minutes of sweet, peaceful silence, as France looked upon England's sleeping face, and then…

France's hands release their hold upon one another, and after a moment's thought he brings up one of his arms up in front of the England's face. It hung there in the air for a few moments, as if it too had thoughts that needed to be debated upon. After what seemed like half a lifetime, France makes up his mind: the stillness is broken with Francis flicking England in the forehead.

For a split second, there is still quiet in the room. Nonetheless, contrary to popular speculation, England's head was, in fact, _not _hard enough for this to go unnoticed. His departure from peaceful sleep soon followed.

"_Wha_-?" His normally sharp senses are dulled by sleep, but he's known France for the better part of his life, and it takes less than a second for him to recognize the smugly amused man standing right in front of him. His hand rises up and swats Francis' arm away. "Take two steps back and fuck off, _frog_."

A smirk edges its way upon Francis' lips, the self-serving smile the first that he has had all day. "Ah, I see you still have no knack for manners. As if it is such a surprise that you remain a little bachelor." He shakes his head, smirking, and England growls at him. "Still, little Angleterre isn't supposed to be _sleeping _when we're waiting to be called upon."

England, whose face was already lined with annoyance, scowled upward at France. "You know, I am really looking forward to the day that your whole country falls into the ocean. Besides, you bloody frog, closing my eyes for a few minutes just so I don't have to look at your ugly face isn't any reason to act like a twit and poke me in my own."

"I didn't poke you, mon cher, I _flicked _you, and my face is not-"

"-which is still not the point." Now England's face is starting to get red, unable to immaculately maintain his adult bearing as his old guardian kept tittering at him. "Besides," one of his hands moved up towards his forehead, rubbing the spot where a small red blotch was already forming, "why were you hovering over me anyways?"

Francis pouted for a moment, acting like he is seriously considered the question before he gave in with a slight shrug. "Who can say why these things happen? I suppose I finally got to this portion of the room, and as I passed you I was forced to stop, and against my will I was overcome by an extraordinary need to commit an act of violence upon your person and so I did. You should be thanking me instead of scolding me, _Angleterre_, since pushing you out the window was also a tempting offer..."

England's scowl deepened, and while France is sure that it is meant to invoke fear in him, he hasn't the heart to tell him how much he looks like his old, adorably awkward self. Eventually, the Englishman just lets out an annoyed breath, bringing his arms back across his chest in an indignant huff. "Just try and keep your hands to yourself for the rest of the time here, frog. The sooner we get out of here, the better, and I'll _try_ to fight the urge to hand you your ass again if you would for _once _just get serious…"

Francis knows that there's an underlying layer of exasperation in the younger man's sharp words that he too shares, but not for the same reasons that the Englishman has. Still, he tries to preserve his lighthearted routine, keeping a smile upon his countenance. There are some faces that he does not want England to see. "Little Angleterre likes nothing more than to complain."

He takes a few steps away from England, letting his hands rejoin one another behind his back as he moved out of England's reach. "If we stuck you in a room with Russie, I'm sure that, unless he was able to strangle the irritable life out of your little body, you would complain him into oblivion. The whole war would be over, and we wouldn't have to worry about Taganrog anymore."

Francis shakes his head, mock dismay spreading across his handsome face as England's scowl deepened even further. "If only you had more brains than bile in that petite head of yours, Angleterre, you would be able to make your natural orneriness into a weapon instead of just annoying everyone around you-"

"-and I wonder where I got it from."

"Probably that nasty brother of yours, so don't look at me. _I, _for one, tried to bring you up properly."

England scoffed. "Don't act like you're my father, France. I would have been fine on my own."

Francis shrugged. "At least we will never have to know otherwise. As I was saying, if you could harness that sour little temperate of yours, you would finally be the invincible little gentleman you've always fancied yourself to be…" His fingers reach out, tracing the carved patterns on the back on one of the chairs before him. The pattern had a rich gold inlay, making an attractive contrast with the dark mahogany wood that made up its frame.

"Maybe someday other people will actually believe it too."

In response, England just rolls his eyes, raising one of his hands in order to give France a two finger salute most proper to him. "You really do need to stop talking. You'd be doing the world a favor if you'd sew your mouth shut. Also," he turns his head to the side, turning his glare towards the innocent window, "putting a little more thought into your battle strategies so we wouldn't still have to be here would be _nice_."

"_Mon Angleterre_, I am wounded. I have done my best at all times. It is _you_ who should-"

"Whatever." England is really not in the mood for this, and lets his head rest back against the wall with a dull thud, letting his eyes close again. "I just want to get out of this place…"

France's smile stays upon his face, but it thinned. He held it as if it was the only expression that he could make, even if it was as genuine as a midnight sun over Calais. His fingers tightened their hold upon the back of the chair, his gloves preventing his fingers from pressing against the wooden frame that he knew so well.

"I would like to leave too, Arthur." The words come out softer than he intended them to, the meaning twisted even before they finished coming from his lips. "I never wanted to be here again."

To England, the words were worse than a slap.

His eyes open, his agitative mood from earlier evaporating almost instantly. England keeps his gaze away from France, careful to hide the pang of guilt that flits over his features. It had been a long time since the two of them had been working on friendly terms, and _centuries _since he had left the elder's guardianship, but…

That didn't mean that he _enjoyed_ Francis in pain.

Defeating him? Sure, he enjoyed that. _Loved_ it, in fact. There were few things better in life that shoving France's face into the dirt and then gloating over it. But now, in this city of all cities…

…England just didn't have it in him…

_It didn't matter if Novinha wasn't here to see it, he just couldn't do it._

"How much longer do you think it is going to be?" There isn't much bite behind his words, and Francis doesn't protest the shift in conversation. The older man glances over at the clock, eyeing the timepiece with as much warmth as England had before. He frowns slightly.

"It is only a quarter past three, Angleterre." And they're back to their nation names, and England feels a little better. "I would have assumed that our…_host_, would have prepared his envoy for this meeting at least an hour ago. All of this delay," he turns back towards England, dismissively waving a hand in front of him, "I have no idea. Such remarkably bad taste." And France allows an opportunity to mock England's own poor taste slide as he continued on, being the gentleman that he was. "You would think that he would be more grateful for someone keeping Russie from gutting his empire..."

"Never quite struck me as the type to say 'thank you'." England remarked dryly, and Francis nods in agreement. "Nonetheless, _Angleterre_, it won't hurt either one of us to protect our interests here, both now," and he looked at England pointedly, waiting for the younger man to meet his eyes before he continued, "_and for the future. _A man like him is bound to run out of luck _someday.._."

England rolled his eyes at that, but he smirked: he pushed himself up off of the wall to stand next to France. "Doesn't everyone's? Hopefully, his sooner than ours…"

But it will not be soon enough for Francis, though he doesn't get a chance to say that: in their seemingly abandoned wing, a door opened somewhere down the hall outside. The two can hear the sound of many footfalls, alerting them to the upcoming appearance of the Turkish envoys. There are English and French voices mixed in with them, and it seems that both his and England's men had already been called upon and were making their way there. Soon enough, they'll have the meeting that they came to this wretched place for, and they will be finally able to leave.

France is the first to move towards the door, almost gliding across the marble as England soon followed after him, both men ready to be done with this whole affair. Nonetheless, England paused for a moment, looking back at the chair that Francis had been touching a few moments before. After the sound of his companion's footsteps stopped, France paused in mid-step. "Angleterre?" Francis called out to him, a teasing tone back in his voice as if the last few minutes hadn't happened. "Are you coming?"

"Naturally." England begins walking again, quickly following after France until he came abreast of him. "France?"

"Oui, Angleterre?"

He looks back one more time, and then made up his mind. "Why did you touch that?"

"Pardon?" Francis' gaze slide over to Arthur, a light questioning look within his blue eyes that seemed slightly confused.

"The chair. You looked at everything here, but you didn't touch anything." England jerked his head back. "Except for that thing. Why?"

"_Angleterre_, you were sleeping for quite some time. For all you know, I was touching a great _many _things, perhaps a few upon your own person, and you wouldn't have-"

"Why Francis?" France's reasoning was logical, but it doesn't quite fit. In all the time that they had spent here, or at least the time they had spent together, France's hands have almost always been clasped behind him, as if privately afraid of dirtying himself. But this once…

Francis' lips thinned for a moment, and then he continued on towards the door. "I was just admiring the workmanship. It is actually quite a beautiful piece, and I wanted to get to know it a little better. Is that all right with Angleterre?"

England let out a breath, feeling annoyed again but ready to let it go. "Tch, whatever. It just looks a little out of place, you know. Of all of the stuff here, it is the only thing that doesn't seem so, so..." England gestured in front of himself, quickly dropping his hand when he couldn't articulate his point: nonetheless, Francis knew what he meant.

"_Arabesque_?" Francis chuckled lightly. "That's a little farther south than this place, but I understand." He takes a short look around the room. "For all the new little additions I see here, most of this seems to be little more than a hodgepodge of some of his newer castoffs and a graveyard for some of the older pieces of this city."

England's brow furrows for a moment. In the next, his eyes widen slightly. "So is…is that?…"

"Yes, yes, little Angleterre." Francis' back is still to England, and his steps do not waver. "That piece was one of Justinian's."

"_Oh_." The word fell flat between them, sounding more like an accident than an answer. England really didn't know what to say to that, his face flushed mercilessly at his newly obtained knowledge. Francis pretends not to notice England clearing his throat uneasily, and for a moment, it seemed like the issue was dropped.

"How do you know for sure?"

Francis' face freezes for a second, and before the next beat of his heart, his lips quirk up into a parody of a smirk. It seemed that no matter how old England got, or how sullen or aggrieved he made himself out to be, he would always remind Francis of what a child he still was. He's already at the door, England still several paces behind him, the forthcoming envoys drawing nearer with each moment. He didn't look at Arthur when he answered.

"Because **I'm **the one who gave it to him."

* * *

_Meanwhile_

On the other side of the palace compound, far away from where the foreign visitors were staying, there was another scene unfolding.

"KADIN!"

An angry voice cut through the servant's chatter, a dozen small conversations in a myriad of dialects dying in an instant. Blanched, worried faces looked back at one another, and unspoken words were passed as they begin to scatter. The hallway outside one of the palace's kitchens emptied as the attendants fled elsewhere, all desperate to flee from their master's imminent arrival and forthcoming wrath.

"_**APTAL**_** KADIN**!"

A few are unfortunate enough as to not be able to move fast enough before the master of the land entered, the twin doors leading in from the western wing slamming opening with brutal force. A few of the servants found themselves being shoved aside roughly, and took refuge in the fact that at least they were ignored as soon as they were out of his way. A swarthy, angry figure stalked through the hall, his robes billowing out behind him as he forced his way through the remaining throng of servants. A few steps behind him, a small band of equally unsettled men followed in his wake, their eyes set upon their master's back.

More curses bellowed out from between his livid lips, irritation and disdain pouring out of his open mouth in his people's native tongue with each step that he took. The master of this land rushed past his people, his anger pouring off of him in waves as the rest of his party followed suit.

Out of the men who followed him, there was one who seemed much younger than the advisors who served the aging empire. He's as dark as the older man, but his head is uncovered, his coarse hair cropped short like the Turk's. His dark eyes noticed some of the servants cowering at the sides of the hall and he hung back, letting the other men follow on without him. Contempt seemed to be permanently etched upon his face, and his lips curled back into a sneer.

"_Qmāmh_."

The word was cold, but spoken with relish: the Turkish servants recoiled from him, and he smirked, his eyes still cold. It felt good to be above someone, and it didn't matter if he had to be far from home to feel that way. With that in mind, he moved on, his steps quickening so he was back with the other men, ignoring the few pointed looks he got from some of the others as he followed on after the Ottoman Empire. There was no point in falling too far behind, since he didn't need the old war-mongerer turning his anger on him.

_Best to let it stay on its current target._

His lips lost their smirk as they fell into a neutral pose, but his eyes gleamed darkly.

The Turk's footsteps were swift, not quite running but prepared to bowl over anyone in his path as he swept through the halls. It was bad enough that he would have to meet with the vultures today, the Roman bastard child and his old pet, but the idiot woman was still nowhere to be seen. It should have been good to be home again, a chance to refresh himself after just coming from the North.

The riots in Epirus were waning in the aftermath of the rebellion, but it was still festering at the edge of his empire, a sore that wouldn't quite go away. It constantly sent twinges of pain through his skull, serving only to increase his rage at the little brat. It was bad enough, the ungrateful little Greek bastard already having run away like the rest of them. And now this?

He should have drowned the little brat when he still had a chance…

…_never mind who his mother was…_

Never mind who she was or what she was, because she didn't matter anymore. None of them did.

'_Because you can't matter when you're dead…'_

The men following behind him couldn't see his face, and even if they could, they wouldn't have seen anything new. His jaw was still set tightly, his teeth grinding together as his eyes scanned through the connecting hallways, flickering across the latticed walls in search of the one who was irritating him now.

"**KADIN!" **His coarse voice barks out again, a few of his advisors cringing behind him. Even more of the servants scattered, and the normally lively wing began to sound like a bone yard. **"**_**IDIOT WOMAN! Get out here!" **_

He turned abruptly to the left, abandoning the large hallway for a narrower corridor that led towards one of the palace courtyards, his attendants scrambling to turn with him. He glanced over his shoulder for a moment, glaring at them with pointed disgust. "You lot, go on. I don't need you little harpies following after me. Inform the foreign trash that I will be meeting with them shortly." He turned back, not even bothering to wait for them to acknowledge the order.

'_And,' _he added silently_, 'if I don't find her in time, I'll just have the lot of you hanged so that the next batch will know better than to let her off on her own when you know __**damn well **__that she should be within arm's reach whenever I am here. As if I should have to look for her...' _His lips curled back. _'Fuck me for thinking that I could take my eyes off of her for a second…'_

His steps carried him onward, and the other men turned away, some pushing into one another as they hurried to carry out their master's newly appointed task. The only one who didn't turn back was the boy, the ever present sneer still on his face as he followed after the older man. They continued on in relative silence, the only sounds to be heard being the fleeing servants and the older man's blustering rage.

Ottoman makes his way into one of the large inner courtyards within the palace compound. Once again, he cursed how large the grounds were, the new additions looped around the older Byzantine structures, which were themselves a twisted labyrinth documenting three different empires.

_From father, to son…_

'…_and from son, to enemy…'_

He supposed it was times like these that made him grateful that he didn't just raze the old palace when he took over. He was sure that France was enjoying himself. Another smirk flits across his face, but it doesn't hold very long.

'_Where is she?'_

His thoughts and anger distracted him, the gardens and his 'companion' both ignored as he made his way across the courtyard. He can feel his pulse pounding in his ears; that coupled with the pain from the riots made concentrating on anything difficult. Pausing for a moment, Ottoman looked around, trying to regain his bearings. The younger man stopped behind him, and opened his mouth as if to speak, but before the words came out from his lips...

This portion of the wing was almost entirely empty, any servants or attendants having long since fled, so the word, spoken in the same tongue as the old empire but with a different face, carried easily across to both men.

"_Babası_."

From one of the corridors lining the perimeter of the courtyard, the feathery sound of swishing silk can be heard, small footsteps running bare upon the stone floor as the voice's owner rushed out to meet him. Barış pulled himself up, his back straightening as his jaw clenched, a look of controlled irritation etching itself upon his face.

A few moments later, a figure emerged from one of the iron-wrought gateways that lead into the courtyard, her skirts almost hiked up over her knees as she ran out to him. He didn't move towards her as she approached, and when she finally stood before him, he doesn't even bother acknowledging her. She bowed her head towards him all the same, obedient respect ingrained into the movement. Less than a moment passes before her head is back up, her face pointed obediently at the elder as she ignored the other man: for his part, the teenager ignored her too.

"Idiot woman," The Turk growled, not bothering to call the petite young girl who stood before him anything else, "why should I have to go looking for you? You should be here the moment I call you, and not waste my time."

"Yes, Father." Her head bobbed again, the locks of her dark hair swaying over her shawl-covered shoulders with the movement. The girl's slight frame is covered in dark, heavy silk, neither a touch of lace nor any ornamentation to be found upon her. She doesn't wear any veils around the palace compound either, nor any of the other garb that adorned the women of the Muslim faith: he wouldn't raise the child believing in any of the garbage that the Caliphate had preached, and he could have cared less as to what her mother had wanted for her.

'_Speaking of her…'_

He snorted, a mean-spirited grin pushing itself across his face as his eyes remained stony. She is already found, so he can spare a few moments for himself. "You never miss an opportunity to disappoint me, do you woman? Tell me, are you this naturally stupid or did the whore have to teach you before she ran away?"

The boy grinned at this too, reveling in the debasement of the other. It didn't matter if she was just a little girl, she was not a real child, and she was in his way to staying close to her father.

Barış can hear the boy sniggering behind him, but ignored him as clearly as his own daughter did. The only reason why the boy was here was because the bastard children of the two sister's weren't. He knew this, and his child knew this: the boy should have figured out by now.

"Forgive me, Father." She says blandly, her words clear but quiet. There is no appeal for emotion within her words, no unnecessary weakness for her father to despise. Looking down at the girl's face, he could see that it maintained its normal, placid mien, obedience the only thing represented in her small frame.

And of course, his words don't bother her, not really. In her mind, she knew Mother was a whore because Father had said that she was, and so it was so. Instead of wallowing in weakness and being ashamed, which would only bring more shame to Father, it was better to pretend that the woman didn't exist. Mother wasn't important because only Father mattered, and if Father said she was stupid, it was only because it was true…

Her answer caused the boy's look to falter, his grin slipping off of his face, but the older man just smirks with a hint of what could have been approval. Neither father nor child cared much for the Egyptian woman, and neither one cared for anyone else outside of their small circle.

Love was not an issue with this pair: only obedience.

The look is gone almost as soon as it appeared, another flicker of pain ringing through his skull. His expression hardens, and she awaits his orders. "You know who is here, don't you, woman?" It should have been a rhetorical question, but she nods anyways, a '_Yes, Father' _following in its wake as she had been trained to do since she had first learned to speak. He hates to hear her say that, the word '_Father_' more annoying than almost anything else, but as long as there is no whiney pitch in her voice like with her mother, it was fine.

"Good. So you know that their men will be crawling all over the city, trying to worm their way into the palace, yes? There are so many weak minds around us," he doesn't spare a look at the boy, but she caught the hint, "and they will try to sway them against us, you know this." The same song and dance follows, the girl's face always turning back up towards her father, waiting for orders as she always had done.

"With that," Ottoman continued, "know that I forbid you from being seen by them. By _**any**_ of them." As if he didn't damn well know that the moment France or England, or even that damned Russian learned where his child and heir was, that they wouldn't be overcome by the urge to '_liberate_' the young girl, treating her like a little guest in their lands as they conspired to turn her against him.

_The last thing that he needed was losing the one thing that would secure his future…_

"I won't have you running about the grounds, letting them look at you like your _mother_ would, making a whore of yourself and shaming me." She nods yet again, but doesn't interrupt him, knowing that he is not yet finished. "So with that in mind, know that for tonight, you will need to hide yourself. Stay somewhere where you won't be seen, since they won't be able to try and search the grounds this day. With the next week, however, don't even leave your chambers unless I give you permission. Is this understood?"

Her head bowed again, lower this time since she knew that their time together would soon be over. "Yes Father, I understand."

He grunted in acknowledgement. "Good. Don't you dare disobey me, woman. If you do…" he lets the threat hang in the air, knowing that he doesn't have to finish it. He's never had to touch her before, neither striking nor comforting her.

He doesn't like touching women.

_He can't __**stand **__it._

"Do you understand?"

And she does, as she has always had. The one thing in his life that hasn't tried to betray him.

"Now hurry and make yourself scarce, you stupid woman. If you value your place, don't disappoint me."

With that dismissal, she bowed for the last time, the move made into a half curtsey as she gently lifted her skirts, preparing to run once more. There are no words of farewell passed between them, no secondary glance as she ran back through the gate that she had come from, her light footsteps becoming lost behind the latticed screens as she headed down one of the hundreds of hallways that make up the royal grounds.

He watched her leave with disinterest, his eyes never straying from her small form until a turn down a hall barred her from his sight. With her departure, there is silence again.

"She shouldn't be here, you know." His lips twitched involuntarily, the sound of the other's voice grating to his ears. The sound also took him back to the present, where he was already late for a meeting that he did not want to have, surrounded by enemies and parasites alike. He turned away, ignoring the other as he made to exit the courtyard. Still, the boy persisted.

"As long she's here, she's just going to be a burden on you. Keeping her at your capital, it's like _announcing _where she is for anyone who cares to know."

"I don't _announce_ where she is." Barış is walking away from him, the teenager making great strides to follow closely at the elder's heels. "And we've had this conversation before. My answer hasn't changed since then."

"I'm just saying," the boy drawls, shifting back into Arabic as was his habit. "You wouldn't have to worry about her as much if you kept her in the south, or maybe in the-"

"We _aren't _having this conversation again." The elder growled, the faint taste of bile rising up in his throat. "As long as I am alive, she won't leave this city. That is final."

"If it's a question on safety, you know that Baghdad is far from the heat of things. I could assure you-"

'_Oh, the promises you all make…'_

They are at one of the iron gates when Barış turned around, his motions smooth as one of his scarred hands wrapped themselves around the boy's neck. "And what," he says softly, letting his thumb press against the hollow of the boy's throat, watching as the teenager began to gasp, "does the promise of an _Arab_ mean to me?"

It is strange how he can feel his heart rate begin the slow, the pounding beat of his pulse quieting in his ears as his fingers tightened their hold. The boy's hands rose up but faltered, even now not quite willing to raise themselves up to push off the older man. A few broken bones had gone a long way in teaching the boy better than to strike back, and after what seems like a small eternity, his hands returned to dangle limply his sides, declaring defeat. Barış watched, the boy's dark face reddening as he fought to breathe; once the boys hands went back down, he loosened his hand.

The boy sputtered, trying to breathe without keeling over, keeping his back straight as his lungs fought to fill themselves with air again. "I am, _not_," he heaved, doing his best to keep his voice in check as anger flashed in his eyes, "_an __**Arab**_." The words come out like poison, the name a dire insult to the Iraqi boy.

The Turk watched the display dispassionately, tired of hearing the teenager think that he was anything but trash. "You don't think I know what an Arab is, boy? You all wallowed in your own filth, waiting for the Caliphate to collect you and to make you into to something new. Then, when it was convenient, you left him to die."

And what did it matter, if Barış was the one who had delivered the fatal blow? Rahman had taken all of the young nations within his kingdom into his home, as if they were his own children who had been waiting to be found. All of that, all he had done for them, and none of them had fought for him in the end. None of them had tried to stop Barış.

The Caliphate had died _**alone**_.

'_Like_…'

But that was just another memory that Ottoman tried to forget. There was no point in caring now.

"As I said," he pushed the boy away from him, turning back towards the gateway, "you are **all **Arabs to me." He takes a few more steps, and then paused with his hand upon the wrought iron-work. "Don't bother following me anymore today. I don't need another headache at this meeting and you aren't useful to me."

"But you can't go into a meeting _alone_." The boy stumbled after him, one hand around his abused throat. "_Someone always has to_-"

"Just because I let the Greek brat tag along for as long as I did, doesn't mean that it was because I _needed _him." He didn't bother turning back, continuing up the steps by himself. "Both of you are useless to me."

_But don't you __**dare **__think that you replace him._

His steps continued on, leaving the other behind without even a second thought. His movements were swift and controlled, the Turk physically trying to calm himself as he proceeded towards the visitor's wing, knowing damn well that they would be angry and no longer having a reason to prolong their wait. Before a minute is out, the sounds of his silk and cotton robes rustling along the floor are gone, and there is silence in the courtyard again.

Silence, and then…

"You bastard." The words are whispered, rasped out of the teen's raw throat. Bitterness is twisted across his face, the same kind that lurked in all of the hearts of the Turk's conquered territories. He hated the older man, but had followed him all the same when the Caliphate had died. The Caliphate had wanted peace, and the Caliphate had been weak: nothing weak lasted long in this part of the world, and the Turk had made sure of that.

With his first master dead, it hadn't bothered Sajjad to follow after his new one, being young but old enough to know that it was best to serve the strongest, since being behind the Devil was the safer than being in his way, but this…

He had followed Ottoman to _serve_, not to _kneel_. What had made Greece better than the rest of them? And the girl…

_What use was she to her father while the Empire was still alive?_

He turned around, sulky anger slowly clearing from his face. He was still angry, yes, as he usually was, but there was no need to throw a fit just yet. The tyrant was getting old, so there was no need for the teen to get himself killed by the old man when the elder was already so close to death. For all he knew, the other might not even survive the war, so it would be better to prepare for _that_ time than to try and rebel _now_.

He could wait.

'_Wait long enough, and the world will come to you…'_

With that in mind, he felt the shadow of a smirk edging its way upon his lips. He walked through one of the other gateways, heading back towards his room which was no better than a common servant's. He ducked his head slightly, letting his eyes rest on the ground as he passed into the hallway, giving his eyes a few extra moments to adjust from the bright sunlight.

He might get sent back to his lands, but then maybe not: the older man's temper fluctuated rapidly, and by the end of the meeting he would probably be too angry enough at his 'allies' to care much about anyone else. His smirk widened, and when he turned into one of the smaller hallways, he didn't even notice the girl until he had almost walked into her.

"What…" He stumbled, almost losing his balance as his feet stopped, quickly setting himself back as he looked at her. "What are…_you_." He question turns into a sneer, his improving mood souring at the sight of her.

"Little _Ankara_." He almost spits the word out. "What are you-"

"You mustn't speak to Father that way." Her Turkish is clear and crisp, neither acknowledging nor minding that the man continued in his own tongue. He's thrown off guard for a moment, then he relaxed again: so the little brat had been spying on him. What did he care?

"Get lost, brat. Your sire's not here, so stop acting so-"

"You have no right to speak _**of **_Father that way, either." She's small, but her face is pointed up at him, her gray eyes looking up at him with a strange attentiveness that borderlined on...

He looked closer at her for a moment, and then his eyes narrowed.

Hate. That's what he could see shining dully in her eyes.

_You little bitch…_

"Get lost before I break your neck for your sire, whore child. Don't think that you matter to him."

Her expression didn't shift, her words still in her usual slow, deadpan voice that never changed. She's a maddening switch from her father in that respect. "We do not matter to Father. No one does."

"And especially not _**you**_, so-"

"You Arabs are going to get yourselves killed." She continued smoothly, as if he hadn't said a word at all. She cocked her head to the side, her gray eyes brightening. "Father knows that those without loyalty know no honor, and those without honor are already dead."

He really hates this little bitch. Still, in an unusual act of restraint, he turned away: there would be other ways to reach his room without dealing with this child. He backtracked for a bit, and took a sidelong glance over his shoulder at the girl before turning his eyes back before him. "Why don't you go run away like your mother did? Shouldn't you be hiding about now?" He kept walking forward, and didn't expect an answer.

"Shouldn't _**you**_?"

He paused in mid-step. Nah, maybe Barış won't notice the girl dead until later. He turned around, ready to wrap his fingers around her little neck and see how much her father liked _**that**_, but she's already gone. The hallway is empty, the sounds of running feet already disappearing down one of the half a dozen side passageways that lead off from this corridor. He doesn't know where she's going, and, after a moment's thought, he doesn't care: he'll make her pay someday. His lips curled upward, his eyes gleaming coldly.

_He would make them all pay._

* * *

_Late Afternoon_

It had seemed like the meeting would never come to an end.

The sun still shone its rays into the room, but the rays were lower now and darker as well. The afternoon already edging its way into night, the heat that had been so stifling before was now slowly ebbing away. The room was almost empty now, with only a few people left. It had taken long enough for their _'host' _to appear before them, the man's envoys being of little help without their master present.

This wasn't their first meeting together, the conflict already in its second year, but it was their first time meeting at the Turkish capital and the first time that England had ever been in this country. Francis' fingers touched against the edge of his pocket, his gloves relieved of their duty and having been retired to the recesses of his pocket midway through the meeting. Something that borderlined upon regret tugged at his mind, a quiet wish that he would have taken England here when the boy ['_young man'_] was still alive. It would have been nice, for England to see the place of memory.

'_Before_…' And his eyes closed.

But it was too late for that.

At least England had carried himself well during the meeting. Long gone were the days when the boy [the _'young man'_] would hide behind him, or fidget incessantly whenever another's gaze was upon him. Here, he stood stock still beside Francis, speaking when needed but otherwise holding his silence. France himself only contributed when he had to, and if it wasn't for the silent, sidelong glances that the English nation kept sending him from time to time, he would have been fine.

France had been stuck between remaining silent on the issue or telling the boy knock it off. Whether it was some sort of ill-timed pity or plain curiosity, France couldn't quite tell, but it was doing more than just annoying him. After nearly each one, Francis could catch the Turk glancing at the boy, England's attention being placed elsewhere. England, despite everything he had achieved to this date, was still a child compared to the other two, and Francis didn't like the amused, dismissal look that was so clearly evident in the other man's eyes.

He didn't have to right to look at England that way.

He didn't have the right to look at him at all.

Now, there were just four others within the room with France, the head of each envoy group remaining as the rest retired to their rooms. England had excused himself a few minutes before, probably needing to freshen himself up a bit after the long, frustrating day. Despite his normally flawless carriage, France himself was feeling a bit under the weather, his clothes sticking to his skin unpleasantly from the day's sweat, the grime from the city clinging to his face in a most unbecoming way.

Nonetheless, those were slight grievances to be paid for the meeting almost being over. He didn't have anything more to contribute to the talks, his man finishing up their business with the Turk on the other side of the room. In truth, he was only there just to keep an eye on things, letting England have break because the younger man needed it more than he did.

Well, perhaps '_needed' _was not the right word to use.

Francis wasn't ready to take a break. Not yet. He wasn't ready to let the Turk leave his sight before this was done. He just-

As if knowing that he was in the other's thoughts, the older man looked up from where the diplomats had encircled him, his dark eyes meeting with Francis' bright blue ones. He caught Francis staring him, and his eyes seem to brighten for a moment before his lips curled into a smirk: a sharp stab of anger blooms in France's chest, and he looked away, quick to compose his demeanor.

He didn't want to lower himself to the other's level, he didn't want to give him the satisfaction in knowing how much it is eating him alive to be there. Yet, from across the room he can hear the man laugh's, and when he looks back at the Turk, the man had already turned his attention back to the men around him, letting Francis seethe quietly.

It was bad enough that he had to be here. It was bad enough that he had to help him.

'_It was bad it was so bad it just-'_

He wished, for a moment, that he didn't have to side against Russia in this. He wished [_how badly did he wish_] that he could justify sending the whole of his forces against the Turk, tearing the Ottoman bastard limb from limb as he tore his empire apart.

'_How he wished, oh, how he wished…'_

Francis shook his head, squaring his shoulders. He knew better than to wish for such petty things. He had a task to accomplish, his people to serve, and if it meant helping the man whom he hated above all others who breathed, so be it. He closed his eyes again for a few moments, absently raising a hand to brush a few strands of hair back into place as he let out a quiet breath.

He was not a slave to his emotions. He was not a slave to his needs. He could do this. He could-

His silent thoughts were interrupted as a heavy sound reached his ears. It's the door, the heavy wood, made for letting its motions be heard, closing behind someone, and for a moment he thinks that England has rejoined them. He opens his eyes, expecting to see the petulant face of his former charge glaring up at him, ready to badger him for losing track of time.

He didn't expect for the envoys to be gone from the room. As if such, he also didn't expect the Turk to be right in front of him.

"_Tired_?" The word came out in smooth, if husky, English. The sound brought the picture of a moth eaten, dust-clotted oilcloth to Francis mind, and the rotten decay in the image repulsed him.

This was the man, all right.

The older man was only a few feet away from him, and France is shocked to not have noticed the other's approach. The Turk continued, as if France had replied. "It seems as if all of this has taken quite a toll on _you_."

Francis recomposed himself, letting his face fall into a neutral mien, his words clipped and dry. "This war has taken a toll on all of us. Perhaps better planning on your part would have avoided many headaches on ours."

The other man smiled thinly, the look never quite reaching his eyes that gleamed so darkly at Francis. "The same could be said of you as well. This war," he shook his head, "it is but a newer setback. It seems like there is much more weighing down upon you." The side of his lips quirked up. "How unfortunate of a man you are, _France_…"

Francis returns the smile, the look as artificial as the one across from him. "I didn't realize that you had this much spare energy, _Turk_." He is able to make the word sound almost profane, the word dirtier to him than any of the colorful curse words that spewed from England's lips. Still, the other's face doesn't even twitch. France continued on.

"Tell me, do you just _enjoy_ picking fights with the wrong nations?" Francis cocks his head to the side, coupling the movement with a side-step that created more space between the two men. "Because I can assure you, _Turk_, that you have picked an unfortunate one with Russie, and now it appears that you are trying to find a new one _now_…"

The other man shrugged, taking a matching step that brought the distance between the two closer again. "There is no point in picking fights, France. Wars happen because they have to, not because they are wanted." He paused for a moment, and then his smile widened. "You've fought with that English boy before, haven't you?"

Whenever Francis had called England a 'boy', it had been in a teasing tone, but always with affection. Now this, the word spoken by the Turkish man, it seemed to be both mocking and perverse. "I do not believe England has anyplace in our conversation, nor does anyone else." France answered coldly. He knows that he answered too quickly, but wasn't able to stop it.

"But still, no hard feelings there, right?" The man returned coolly in English. "For all of the things that have happened, you don't hate the boy, do you?"

Francis smiled back thinly, wishing their conversation was taking place in French so at least if England walked in, he wouldn't know what was happening just yet. "No, I have no hard feelings for England." And it's true.

'_I could never hate him.'_

"And no hard feelings for me?"

Francis can feel his jaw silently clench together, feeling the coppery tang of blood in his mouth as a few of his teeth bite through the skin of his inner cheek. He didn't answer right away, letting his teeth slowly grind together as he kept his face from displaying the rage that that comment deserved. After a few minutes, with the Turk patiently watching him, France finally answered. The words barely make it out of his mouth.

"No. No. Hard. Feelings. Between us _**men**_."

The Turk lets out a fake sigh of relief. "I'm so glad to hear that, France. I would hate to think that your brother's death would always be between us." Ottoman smiled warmly at France, ignoring the grimace that shudders its way across the other's face. He moves on, as if he had never mentioned the murdered boy. "By the way, France, do you like this room?"

The Frenchman's look becomes deadpan, wary of the shift in conversation. "There's no organization to this room. You seem to just throw anything together that you could get your hands on."

"Ah, that is a shame." Ottoman turned slightly, taking a few steps away from France. Francis watched as those few steps brought the Turk closer and closer to the gift Francis had once bestowed upon his brother when they were still on speaking terms-

_-when Justinian had still been alive-_

"Because," the Turk continued, his steps bringing him ever closer to his prize, "I had heard so much that you were, what do they say, a _connoisseur _of good taste, is that not so?"

Francis hates the sound of the word upon the other's lips. Still, he nods his head. "I suppose. A man couldn't be considered one if he had to say it himself..."

"Good." Ottoman nods, his hand running over the back of the chair like Francis' had hours before. "Good, good. Because I have a question, and I was hoping that, before you left, you would be able to help me with it."

Francis continued to glare at the back of the other's head, but nodded, forgetting for a moment that the other couldn't see it. "If you have a question, then hurry up with it. I've wasted enough time here already."

And once England walked through those doors, this conversation would be over, and Francis would take Arthur's arm and frog march right back out of it, and he would never have to be in this land ever again, and he could go back home and see Reina, and put all of this behind him. "What is it?"

There is a thin pall of silence that followed his words. The Turk's hand paused for a moment, resting against the gold inlay that Francis had admired so sadly. Barış hadn't cared much for the boy's things, never having been partial for luxury himself. It was just nice, watching how such little things provoked sentimental emotions in other people. People were so funny that way. A warm smile etched itself across his face.

"Are they still there, France?"

There is a blank look across Francis' face, the question taking him off-guard with its own neutrality. "I am not sure as to what you mean, Turk. Explain."

"Of course, forgive me France. What I meant was, did her scars ever go away?"

In the second that follows the Turk's final word, all of the blood in France's face drained away. His mouth opened, but no words come out. Ottoman listened, waiting, and when he hears the silence behind him, he turned around, leaning his weight against the chair that he had inherited by killing its young master.

"Are they still there, _Francis_? I was hoping that they were, but I haven't been able to confirm for myself." His head fell to the side thoughtfully, then he straightened his neck again. "Could I _**see **_them if I ripped open the neck of her dress? Could I _**feel **_them if I brushed my fingers across her breasts?"

The man's face is blanched to a dead white, and even from here Barış can see the man's pupils have shrunk into tiny pinpoints. '_And yet, the man is silent.'_ Barış doesn't want to hear silence. He did not want to hear it with her all of those years ago, and he does not want to hear it with this man now. All he wants is to hear another in as much pain as he is in. The words keep spilling from his lips, smooth like poisoned honey.

"It must pain you, such a man of fine taste, having to settle for a damaged product. A used one at that. I'm sure you could do better, but you don't and that's such a shame." And the fact that Rome's bastard offspring had chosen to lay with one another had not surprised them.

_Their whole clan was made for each other…_

"Still, I don't think that the boy minded that much. Did you know that?" France's chest had stopped moving, not a breath moving in or out of the Frenchman's body. And still, his eyes grow wider. In turn, Ottoman's smile deepened.

"Did you know that she let him touch her? _Did you know for sure? _Did you know that your little brother had been at her first, that she let him touch her, her and her scars, long before she ever touched _you?_" And Barış knows that its true, knowing damn well how hard the boy had came after him after what happened all those years ago. Centuries of the little Byzantine boy trying to wipe him off the face of the earth, and what did the boy get? A few years with his sister, his own brother's betrayal and a sword in his chest. Barış wondered if it had been worth it.

He doubted it.

He had had her first, and it had been _most _unsatisfying.

"Do you see her scars when you touch her, dear _France_? Does she let your hands rest upon them, or does she push them away when you try? I must admit, she's not that strong: it wasn't that hard for me to hold her down. I guess she's not that hard for anyone. She's had enough men at her already, you being the third in your family line..."

"_You…" _The word came out in a strangled whisper, pure will and pure will alone having wrested those words from his lips. France's eyes are staring at the Turk, staring at him and yet so far away. He took a lurching step forward before he stopped, his body going rigid as the blood returned to his face, casting his pale features into an unnatural scarlet hue. _"You…"_

"Does she scream for you, Francis?" The words come out in hushed tones, both intimate and grotesque in their delivery and nature. "I don't know if she screamed for your brother, he wouldn't tell me before he died, but she screamed for _**me**_. Think if she was here today, that I could make her scream again?"

France takes another staggering step at him, paused, and before Ottoman opens his lips, the Frenchmen closed the distance between them. He's shorter than Barış, but not by much, and he's fast, and Ottoman hands barely close around the other's wrists in time before France's hands try to wrap themselves around the Turk's neck. France's face is still unnaturally pale, but the veins are sticking out of his neck, and Barış can't help but let out a bark of laughter at the sight.

"France, oh France, you pathetic little man, I don't mean to hurt you. Did you know that I thought that she had died when I left her? Would it have hurt you any less in the long run if she had? Would you feel less guilty?"

And he knows it's what the other feels, even if he doesn't want to admit it. Guilt, a remnant of the tainted legacy that Rome had left to his children. Guilt, for the lives that their father had taken, and the lives that had to pay the price for his greed…

He tightened his grip around France's wrists, feeling dull pleasure when the bones in the other man's wrist begin to grind together. He leaned his head in next to France's, letting his chin rest upon the other's shoulder, the other man thrashing in his grip.

"Tell me France, when it comes to her, which do you hate more: that I left her there to die, or that your father was the one that broke her in? Which one hurts you more?"

Barış laughed as he feels the other man's chest heaving against him, words of rage and hate lost as France's mind tried to make sense of the pain he was in. He laughed, feeling the bones that his hands were wrapped around grinding together, wondering when the boy will be back so he can see his old guardian stripped of his pride. He's still laughing when France's sleeves rips within his hand, tearing all the way up to the other's man's elbow, freeing the younger man's arm.

He's laughing until the knuckles of France's left fist connect with his temple, his grip loosened just long enough for France's other arm to be freed. From there on, things happen in a hurry.

Francis had never been a particularly strong man, not in his youth nor now. He had been tall, like his father, but Justinian had been the only one in their family to inherit Rome's powerful frame. It didn't matter. Looking back at this, he could never quite recall the moment when the older man lost his balance, the strange, almost tranquil split second when the Turk stopped laughing, gravity having yet to bring its full force upon the careening men.

He is unarmed, having long despised carrying firearms, and his only sword had been a gift from his sister, forged in Toledo years before, something too precious to ever bring into battle. He has only his hands: his soft, white artist's hands. His hands, which had never been meant to hold a weapon, hands that his father had been both ashamed and disgusted by.

Hands that had never been able to properly protect the few people whom he loved in this world.

_His hands, and his alone._

Just like he never quite remembers the moment when they fell, he can never quite recall the minutes that follow the sudden, dull thud of flesh hitting the marble floor. He doesn't remember if any words are passed between them, with only the dry rumble of the other's laughter piercing the silence in his mind, the sound only broken when Francis' fist connected with the Turk's mouth.

He also doesn't notice when two of his knuckles in his left hand separate, his fist beginning to warp without him even noticing. Still, he doesn't notice, and he doesn't care, his pulse pounding in his temples, the sound only accompanied by the chortled laughter beneath him and the sounds of his fists, descending over and over again.

He doesn't remember how long it lasts.

He doesn't remember, and if he could, he knows that it wouldn't be long enough.

But what he does remember is the strange feeling behind him, what felt like hands suddenly upon his back. His spine straightened, but his hands didn't stop, the only thought fleeting across his red-hazed mind is that the other had finally decided to push him off, never mind that the Turk's hands hand been pinned beneath him the entire time.

The hands move across his back, and he feels them trying to pull at him, one of them tugging under his arm, and he tries to force himself forward, trying to escape from them. One of his blows missed its mark, only grazing the Turk's temple as his fist landed against the floor. The marble is less giving than the Turk's face, and a flash of pain shoots up France's arm, his already fractured knuckles splintering even further with the contact.

The pain caused him to stop for a moment, and in that instant arms wrap around his torso, pulling his back flush against another's chest. There's a spark of understanding as he realized someone is trying to pull him off of the Turk, and he began to thrash, another blow flying widely.

Beneath him, he dimly registers that Barış isn't laughing anymore: only a thick, wet cough came from between his split lips. There is blood all over the Turk's face, like a mask covering his features, and France regards with disinterest that not all of it is the Turk's. A look at his own hand, he can see that it is devoid of its former paleness, the skin stripped from his newly realigned knuckles. His hands were still in fists, and even if he wanted to open them he couldn't, the appendages little more than jellied hunks of meat hanging onto the bones.

Still, there's someone pulling at him, words being yelled into his ear that he doesn't quite understand, and for a few moments, Francis relents, allowing himself to be lifted up freely. This sudden reversal in action caught his new attacker off guard, the unexpected ending of France's struggles causing the other to overbalance and fall to the ground, pulling France with him.

Still acting on base instinct, France twists in the other one's loosened grip, and in the moment when his attacker was still stunned from the fall, he forces himself free, pinning the other behind him as the Turk kept coughing up blood. His hands settle around the attackers neck, France prepared to finish off the unfortunate servant who picked the wrong time to serve their master, and as he does it his face is greeted by wide, shocked looking green eyes.

A green that had no place in their part of the world.

_A green that only belonged to one person that he knew_.

"_Francis_." The word comes out in a startled whisper, England's breath shaky as he tried to breathe with the older man on top of him. His skin is pale, and there is a naked expression across his face that seems equal parts of surprise and panic. There's a twist in France's gut, looking at a face that he hadn't seen since England was little more than a infant: the tired, frightened look that he never seemed to lose in the first few years that France had taken care of him. And now, the boy a young man, pinned under him…

_Frightened of him…_

'_Mon dieu…'_

"_Arthur_." Francis doesn't even know if he says the word out loud, or if his lips only mouthed the other's name. He pushed off from England, standing up jerkily as if he had been touched by a hot iron. His guilty eyes fell from England's face, and he sees that some of his blood had smeared onto the other. "_Mon dieu_…"

'_Oh God, Arthur…'_

He turns away, disgust and horror tearing at his psyche as he stumbled off, his steps leading him towards the door that the other had came from without him noticing. England called after him again, and when France heard the young man ['_boy', England would always be a 'boy' to him_] get him, his steps quicken, his bloodied hands grasping wildly at the doorknobs as they tried to open the door. He hears his name again, and his fingers tear at the door, desperate to open it and get away from his guilt.

By some miracle, they finally open the damned thing, and he thrusts the doors outward, shoving them open before he launched himself through them. He runs through the halls of his dead brother, leaving behind the man who had tried to take his sister's life and the boy whom he had tried to protect for all of those years. Now, his blood was on England, it was everywhere, and France ran away from it all, ignoring England as he called after him, the boy following but never able to catch up with the other.

They both leave the Turk behind, letting him rest in a pained slumber brought on by bad thoughts and a partially crushed face, and if there had been a small shadow hiding behind the latticed screens the whole time, no one ever noticed.

* * *

_Later_

"_Babası."_

He opens his eyes, or tries to, and is vaguely surprised to find that the room is still shrouded in darkness. Raising a hand, his fingers brushed up over his face, and he discovered the problem: his eyes were swollen shut. That, and the fact that there is caked blood all of the lower half of his face, his nose having found a new angle at which to point, his lips spilt open in a most generous way, and there's blood in his mouth.

No matter.

He forced his right eye open, pinching the flesh of his eyelid with his nails as he pulled it up, forcing his eye to see. He could see that the room was dimly lit, hardly brighter than the back of his eyelids had been. He groaned lightly, pressing his palms against the marble floor, pushing himself up and instantly regretting it: he had been laying on top of the hard ground for too long, and his spine protested harshly the sudden shift. One of his palms, slicked with blood from venturing across his face, slips on the marble, and if not for two small hands grasping his bicep, he would have fallen back against the floor.

"Baba-"

"Get off of me, woman." He shrugged her off, hunching his shoulders over to help him maintain his sitting position. "I don't want you touching me." Wordlessly, she let go, and he heard the dull thud as her knees striking the marble floor: she's kneeling behind him now, a respectful distance away from him, and waiting.

_Always waiting._

Couldn't she do something else?

"Did you hide like I told you to?" He can hear her hair rustling as she nodded, a quiet '_Yes, Father' _accompanying the motion. He stopped, gathering the blood in his mouth with his tongue and turned his head to spit. He felt a little better after that, the metallic aftertaste still lingering in his mouth.

"Then why are you here now?"

Her head rose up, looking at the back of her father's skull intently. "I was hiding behind the screens, Father. I was making my way through this wing, and when I heard shouting, I came over quickly."

"Hmm." He let his eye close, his head lolling around his shoulders. '_Of course_.' What better place for such a small child to hide, than where an adult could not follow? That lead him to his next question. "Were you seen?"

She shook her head violently, her hair dancing upon her shoulders. "No, Father. I waited until the foreigners left the room before I came out. I would not let them see me."

He nods listlessly, letting his aching joints and newly battered face rest for a few moments more. And then, a tug of what may have been the shadow of guilt prompts his final question.

"Were you listening?"

There's silence behind him, no '_Yes, Father'_s or nods this time around. Just by how long it took for her to reply, he already knew the answer; he knows, but he waits, knowing that she will not deny a direct question. Finally, he heard movement, the heavy silk adorning her frame shifting as she salaamed deeply towards him, her small palms pressed against the cold floor as her forehead followed suit.

"Babası, I do nothing that is not in your service. I can hear without listening, I can know without understanding. I do not know their language, as you have instructed me. I have done nothing tonight that would dishonor or betray you, Father. I am your humble servant, and my loyalty is only to you."

And it is, as it has always been.

_She was the only thing that kept him from being completely alone in this world._

"Good." He grunted softly, the word thick on his blood-clotted lips. "Now get off the floor and get away from me." He heard her springing to her feet as he tried to push himself up, making it to his knees before he felt himself slipping again. Just like before, even though he had told her not to, he could feel her hands steadying him, some of his blood getting onto her as she helped him up. If she minded it, she didn't let it show; she stepped away from him once he was steady, beating his hands from shoving her off as they would have had she clung to him for another second more.

He looked down at her with his one good eye, watching her obedient face look back at him. He took a deep breath, feeling more blood slither down his throat. He eyed her warily.

"They will be back, you know."

She said nothing, her bright eyes mirroring his bloodied face. She didn't even blink.

"They'll be back." He whispered. "They smell blood in the water already, and they'd be damned to let an opportunity pass them. They're going to come back, for me and for you…you know that." And she did, as much as she can understand. Certainly, she could feel the tension from within him, and if she has a comment on that, she kept it to herself.

Was it right to provoke France? Hah, it wasn't _wrong. _Perhaps another time would have suited the occasion better, but there was no time like the present, and he knew that things were going wrong in a hurry. With or without Europe's help, things were going bad, and if he lived another 100 years, no one would be more surprised than himself. They were coming, they were coming for him.

_They were coming for her._

_They wouldn't have any more mercy for his child than they would for himself._

So why not give them some pain to start with?

He looked back at her, watching how her hands were clasped before her, how her eyes never wavered from his face. "And when they come," he started, taking a moment to continue. "When they come, we will fight." He swallowed hard after this, tasting blood yet again, but not caring.

He waited for the 'Yes, Father' that he knew he should hear, that was the bulk of all words she had ever spoken to him. Instead, she looked at him with her dull, obedient face that reminded him of her mother, and her eyes, which shone with a dark, misplaced intelligence that he had known from the generation before…

"Then we will fight, Father." No prim hesitation nor fear in her words. Just a quiet knowledge of what needed to be done, an acceptance their fate and what it entailed.

"We will fight them, and they will know us by the trail of the dead."

There's a pained twitch that passes across his face, and it took him a moment to realize what it is: he was trying to smile. It's the same, careless smirk he had given her all those hours ago, which spoke of both casual negligence and quiet approval. He bared his teeth at her, and nodded sagely.

"Oh, they will, woman. They will know us quite well…"

* * *

_Barcelona, October, 1855_

"You've hurt yourself again."

There was a dry, almost amused tone in her voice. Her fingers were wrapped around his left hand, one slim hand cradling his wrist nonchalantly as the other gently threaded over the raised knuckles that bulged out from their proper alignment. He sat there, patient, letting her nimble fingers lightly poke and prod at his hands as if he was still a little boy. One of his elbows rested against his knee, while his other arm dangled loosely between his knees.

"It's not much, you know that, _ma soeur_. A few more weeks, and it will be like nothing happened at all."

And it will be, because his hand will heal, but that is not her point. She just hummed quietly, both acknowledging his remark and disregarding its worth. She unfurled his hand, moving it to rest upon her leg just above her knee, the dark silk beneath it as cool as her skin.

They were sitting together, their chairs close enough so that their knees almost touched. The closed windows afforded them a view of the city and the sea that lay beyond it. Even with autumn beginning to take its hold, it was still warm, the sun's rays sparkling upon the sea's waves. Her fingers never stopped moving as they examined his hand, the soft pads of her fingertips gently pressing upon all of the new bumps and scars that adorned her brother's once-delicate appendage.

"It's not like you to be this careless, _Francisco_." There was a soft, chiding edge to her words. She seemed to be at a crossroads, stuck between laughing at his face and scolding him like a mother. "Such a terrible, terrible example you set for the little ones." As if Antonio or Novinha were anywhere near the palace, but yet again, that was not the point. He smiled at her, but she ignored him, her eyes still mapping the newly roughened terrain of his hand as her fingers followed.

"You make me sad, sister. I have done everything I can to make you happy-"

"-including looking for fights you have no business fighting."

"_Soeur_-"

"At least," she pushed down on his hand, forcing his fingers to splay out against the heavy silk of her dress. Without his normal gloves, it is easy to see how his fingers were no longer the long, delicate digits that they once were. "Try and curb your foolishness, brother. You are not a young man anymore."

He lets out a quiet hiss as she forced his crooked fingers to straighten, the light pain soothed as her cool hands passed over his tired flesh. Her hands worried gently over his own, her eyes downcast as he watched her face. Her lips didn't twitch, her breathing remained steady, and if there was any sign of distress upon her face from old memories, she didn't let it show.

"Are you angry with me, Reina?"

His words are quiet, not quite an apology. Only a question whose answer he needed to hear.

Her eyes flitted up towards him for a second, the golden topaz irises hard but clear. She looked back down at his hand. "I have been disappointed with you before, brother, but rarely have I been angry." Her fingers finally halted their movements, stopping to rest against his own. "I am not angry now."

And it's an answer, even if only a half one. "I'm glad to hear that." He turned his hand over, letting the back of his palm rest against her leg as his fingers slowly clasped around her hand. Looking at their joined hands, it's hard to believe that hers were so small now. As a child, both of his hands had fit in one of hers; now, her hand fit neatly in his, as if it belonged there…

She lets him hold on for a few more moments, and then pulled away. "Just take better care of your hands, brother."

She moved back, standing up from her seat, but his fingers clasped around her wrist before she could leave him. He joined her in standing, his movements a tad stiffer, but with a pained sort of elegance that she had mastered long ago. He pulled her closer, letting his free hand gently wrap around her waist, closing the distance between them until she was flush against him, her face pressed gently against his chest.

She didn't look up at him as he does this, nor did she when he rests his chin against her shoulder. She moved her head slightly to the side, giving him silent consent as he pressed his face against her neck, his cheek resting against the stiff silk of her collar and the dark whorls of her hair. He breathed in softly, taking in her scent even as so much of her skin was still barred from him.

'_And her scars…'_

Underneath the heavy, dark crimson silk that she wore, they were there. They would always be there, a part of her for the rest of her long, unnatural life. He knew that if he pulled down the collar of her dress, which was so high even in the summer months, that the skin beneath it was a knot of twisted scar tissue, the wound from when her throat had been bitten through never healing properly.

The scars trailed down to her breasts, other ones curled over her hips and along her arms. And the worst…those were between her legs, up from her thighs and around the curve of her sex…

They would always be there.

_Always, but…_

_At least she is here._

Now, and with him.

Their two hands are still joined together, and he squeezed hers lightly. She sighed softly against his chest, her eyes closed and her breathing steady. It was good not to be fighting. Her son ['_their son'_] was with his young friend in the south, and there is nothing in between them right now that would push them apart. He moved his head, pressing a soft kiss against her temple, letting his lips linger against her cool skin, the kiss both a quiet apology and a silent promise.

He couldn't change what the past was. He couldn't bring their brother back. He couldn't stop what happened to her. But this…

He could stay beside her.

He could keep their small family together.

_Novinha and Antonio, her and himself._

At least, he could try.

"You want me to take better care of my hands, sister?" His lips brushed against her ear, his words a soft whisper.

"I would rather take better care of those whom I hold within them."

* * *

**Historical Notes: **The Crimean War was a fairly awfully executed engagement between the Russian Empire and the combined forces of the Ottoman Empire, England, and France. It lasted from October 1853 to February 1856 AD, and was originally about who got to defend the Christians within the Ottoman Empire, which in turn would promote either the Western or Eastern Orthodox Church within the Empire, and ended-up being a bit of a clusterfuck as to who held power in that part of the world. The Russian Empire at this time was getting a tad too strong for certain tastes, and so war was necessary. Absolutely necessary. This war was infamous for being a tactical and logistical nightmare [Charge of Light Brigade, Charge of Light Brigade], where victories were just as bloody for the victor as defeat.

The Siege of Sevastopol [a city now within the Ukraine] lasted from September of 1854 until September 9th, 1855 AD. Despite losing Admiral Nakhimov in late June, the Russian fleet was still able to hold the city for a few more months. In that year, the Russian forces lost 102,000 men, while the 'Allies' lost 128,387, combining the losses of the French, English, and Piedmontese forces. The siege of Taganrog by the 'Allies' in 1855 AD resulted in a Russian victory, though in the end Russia was by itself on the losing side of the war.

In 1854, there was a revolt in Epirus, a heavily Greek-populated area under Ottoman rule. The newly independent state of Greece, which had just won its freedom from the Ottoman Empire in 1829, encouraged the rebellion, and eventually both France and England pressured the young Greek state into halting its aid, since this was occurring during the Crimean War and inconvenient for the two Western nations. Iraq, at this time, was still under Ottoman rule. Egypt was slowly being pushed closer and closer to European colonial rule, since its brief time of independence would lead it to bankruptcy.

**Author's Notes: **Oh, Ottoman, it's not easy being the tyrant of your little kingdom. The man's got less than a century left anyways, so Ottoman, be the biggest bastard you can be!

And Iraqi =/= Arab, not exactly. An 'Arab' is technically a descendent of the tribes of Arabia, which more or less encompasses the entire Arabian peninsula. It is also used to describe the loosely related groups within modern day: Saudi Arabia, Egypt, Lebanon, UAE, Yemen, Oman, Syria, Jordan, Palestine, Iraq, Kuwait, Bahrain, and Qatar. These countries are also now known as the 'Arab World'/Middle East, and are essentially the extent of the Empire of the Muslim Caliphs in their prime.

There are plenty of groups within these countries, however, like the Kurds and Bedouins, who would most certainly _**not **_consider themselves Arabs. Your mileage may vary. Why end with fluff? Because I need the happy. It ain't gonna last long, but I will still have it, damnit!

**Eski Yaralar: **Turkish, '_Old Wounds'  
_**Aptal Kadin: **Turkish, '_Idiot Woman'_, which is undoubtedly the proper way to refer to your prepubescent child. [Oh Ottoman, you'll _never _win the Father of the Year award that way…you're not even trying…]  
**Babası: **Turkish, '_father'_.  
**Qmāmh: **Arabic, '_filth'_.  
**Russie**: French, '_Russia_'. Big jump there.

**The Caliphate: **Abd Al Rahman, 'Servant of the Merciful'. Killed by the Ottoman Empire.  
**Ottoman Empire: **Barış Nefret Düsmanlik, inheritor of the Caliphate's and the Byzantine Empires.  
**France: **Francis Bonnefoy, last male of Rome's bloodline.  
**England: **Arthur Kirkland, former ward of France.  
**Iraq: **Sajjad Uruk, originally Abd Al Saif Sajjad, roughly translating into 'Servant of the Sword in Prostration'.  
**Turkey: **Ankara Sadika Düsmanlik, daughter of modern Egypt and the Ottoman Empire.

**Up Next: **If I ask you to go, please remember me kindly. Lisboa, 1820 A.D.


	24. Lembrese Que Eu Te Amo

Sorry about the delays. Well, as sorry as I usually am [which isn't much].

I'm finally getting settled here in Nanjing, and now all of my classes have started in earnest, so I can actually have a stable schedule for the first time in weeks. I will be able to finish up chapters more or less like I used to, and if not weekly updates then bi-weekly ones.

It is quite nice here at Nanjing University, but I do surely miss the sun. And the moon and the stars for that matter. I miss good old Висконсин, but when am I going to be in China again? XD

P.S. If you know where their names come from, I think you deserve a cookie. :)

* * *

**Everlasting Night**

**Title: **Prelude to Conflict  
**Chapter 24:** Lembre-se Que Eu Te Amo.  
**Characters: **Portugal and Brazil  
**Rating: **PG  
**Summary: **_If I ask you to go, please remember me kindly…_

_Lisboa, 1820 AD_

Long, slender fingers close in upon themselves, forming a loose fist as an arm slowly rose up. Richly spun silk covers the arm, the cream-colored sleeve stretching out along taunt muscle before pulling tight, the cuff dragging itself downward, exposing a darkly tanned, lean wrist, one unused to hardship. The arm reaches out, the hand pulling back to strike the doorframe that stands before him.

He believes that he is silent.

He thinks that she does not hear him.

"Miro?"

The hand freezes in midair, the soft word that was his name catching him off-guard.

Her back was still turned towards him, her small, delicate frame encased in a faded gray silk that seemed pearlescent in the soft morning light. Her petite hands continued their task of arranging letters without even the briefest signs of hesitation, having acknowledged his presence without once pausing in her work.

He lowers his hand gingerly, a small, sheepish grin slowly spreading across his face. It was an old habit of his, knocking before entering her chambers, and even now, at the dusk of his childhood, he still held onto it.

It was just the way he was.

"Are you finished now?"

She's speaking to him again, her face now half turned towards him. Her dark hair was pulled back neatly away from her face, gathered behind her in a simple braid the dark tresses trailing down her back in a sharp contrast to the pale silk that she wore. Somehow, to him the effect seemed to make her look younger, even though her face naturally bore no signs of aging.

With her face turned to him, now he can see that her lips were set in a straight line, a prim expression that held little humor within them. However, above her placid mouth he could see a smile around her eyes, shining softly as they always did towards him. He could feel his chest tightening a bit, the morning sun casting a warm halo around her that seemed both ephemeral and timeless.

He just loved her so damn much.

"Sim, Mamãe." He replies smartly, his head bobbing in agreement with his words. "I finished a while ago." He steps further into the room, his hands hanging loosely by his sides, eventually swinging up to lace behind his head. "You know I wouldn't be here otherwise."

And that wasn't necessarily true, regardless if it was at that moment. Ever since he was a child, Miro had had a tendency to shirk his duties, not out of laziness but out of sheer overexcitement with his world around him. Countless times, after having been appointed to a task, she could find him following after her, a beaming smile showing brightly on his face, pointed at her as if it made up for him leaving his lessons half finished. Still, she could never deny his joyful face, and when he would reach his small hands out to her, she always welcomed him with open arms.

_Always._

_Her little golden angel…_

But now…

"_Meu caro…" _she says lightly, a hint of scolding lacing the edge of her words.

"Mamãe?" He answers back, his grin spreading even wider upon his handsome face. His smiling features were framed by his short, dark chocolate hair, the ends just getting long enough so that they gained a natural curl. She turns fully towards him now, setting down the letters she was holding to give her full attention to her child.

"Miro," she says softly, her hands folding neatly before her with practiced grace her son had yet to master, "You _know _that you need to be ready soon. _Very_ soon." She looks up at him through her lashes, her golden, hazel eyes peering up at him softly. "I can't have you delaying your departure because you were careless and fell behind on time."

With her words, his smile wavers for a moment, and then disappears in the next instant; almost immediately a pout takes its place, his handsome features darkening.

She takes a moment to ponder whether he is sulking because she is reprimanding him, or because she's reminding him of something he doesn't want to remember.

She supposes it doesn't matter.

"I told you I'm finished, _mother_." She casts her eyes down demurely, steadying her features so that her features will not shift. He had dropped his usual endearment in his last sentence, a clear sign of his displeasure at the direction their conversation was taking. His stance had also changed along with his speech, his wide, easy going posture becoming rigid and stiff. It made him look older somehow, even with the petulant jut of his lower lip.

She didn't like him looking at her that way.

She didn't like it at all.

He wasn't that far away from her, half a dozen steps at most, but the distance between them seemed longer than it was. Even from where she stood, she could feel him towering over her, his strong, newly emerged frame paired incongruously with his face which still held some of its childish air. He was looking at her, with an adult, wary look gleaming out from the edge of his chestnut eyes. His words are quiet.

"I just wanted to see you."

And as happy as that should have made her, she felt little warmth inside. She should be happy that her child, whom she loved with the whole of her being, wished to see her. The child whom she had devoted so much of her energies to, the child whom she loved even more than her siblings who had survived the fall of their father's empire.

Whom she loved even more than her own life.

_The child who had caused all those wounded looks upon England's face, as if somehow she had conspired against him, bearing a child in secret just to spite him…_

She let her eyes close, and sighed silently.

_Apparently both of them had things they did not want to be reminded of._

Still, she was his mother, and she had a role to serve.

"Well, then that is good, Miro, so good. Muito bom." She smiles brightly at him, moving her gaze up to match his own. "Is there something else that you need, my child?" Her delicate, heart-shaped face was peering up at him, peacefully challenging the sullen look that was upon his face. She held his gaze, her face effortlessly holding its composure. She knew he would back down.

"You know that I am here to help you." She adds softly.

And he knows that, as he always has. She knows that he doesn't think otherwise, knows that he couldn't.

_How could he not, when she had made herself the entirety of his world?_

'_I just wanted to see you…'_

His gaze flickers for a moment, then he looks down. With that shift, he admits defeat, and he doesn't even know it. Novinha's face stays the same, as she hates herself a little more on the inside. She lets her gaze fall as well, taking the slightest of steps closer to him. "It makes me so happy to hear that, meu filho."

Another step follows her first, and she lets herself draw nearer to him, alleviating some of the tension that had bred so unwelcomingly in the air. She doesn't have to look to know that his face has brightened with the change in her approach. His whole bearing shifts, as if a curtain had been pulled back and allowed sunlight into a darkened room.

She can't help but feel the warmth radiating out from her son. His face splits into a cheerful, lopsided smile, his long arms falling down to his sides. "Mamãe está feliz, sim?"

And that word is back again, and it would be a lie to say that it didn't make her feel better to hear it. Her smile remains upon her lips, and she dips her head slightly, casting her eyes down once again.

She knew just how to act to make him do whatever she wanted.

_But not for much longer._

"I am always glad to hear that, meu filho. You know how much I love you."

And she does, so badly. Ever so badly.

More than he will know.

More than he _can ever_ know.

"There was another thing I was meaning to mention to you, my dear." She raises her eyes again, knowing that his smile will falter yet again with the new words she has to speak to him. She lets her head fall slightly to the side, her eyes appraising him gently. "You know, you don't have to call me 'mamãe' anymore, Miro. You are a **man **now." In body, though not quite in mind.

AS if to prove her silent thought, he makes a small whining sound in the back of his throat. "_But Mamãeee_," he says, stretching the last syllable out as if it strengthened his argument, "Why can't I call you that anymore? I _**have **_to."

"Because, Miro," she says softly, her eyes half-lidded as berates him gently. "You are a man now, and a nation as well." A nation who had hardly lived within his own land. A nation who didn't even know his own people.

And that was all thanks to her.

His loving mother…

_Maybe Reina was right: she really wasn't any better._

She continues on even as the thought passes her mind. "You have the right to call me 'Novinha' as anyone else, my dear." Though it would hurt her to hear him say it. It truly would.

_Novinha._

That name, that name that her father gave her all those years ago, had always felt so cold against her skin. It was a beautiful name, a lovely name that she should have been proud to claim.

She could hardly bear to hear it.

'_Madalena_' was what her siblings had called her, a name born from both their shared religion and her siblings love for her. It was a soft, pretty name, as soft and pretty as she had modeled herself to be, even after as her body aged and her mind grew old.

'_Madalena_', a name England had once called her-

-_but not now, not now_-

No. Not now.

He wouldn't call her that anymore.

"_Mamãe_," the whining tone remains in his voice, his face now set in a firm pout as his words brought her back to the present. "I like being the only one who calls you that." His steps close the distance between them, his expression and frame poignantly distressed. "Why can't I do it anymore?"

With those steps, he finally completed the act of towering over her, his massive frame at odds with his child-like distress. Novinha, approaching the end of her second millennium of life, had long since reached her adult growth, as meager as it was. Her brother and sister had both reached theirs years before, Francis inheriting their father's height while Reina and herself had not. Still, even with that, she did not even come up to her son's collarbone, the 'boy' now well over two heads taller than herself.

She has to tilt her head up to look him in the eyes, an act that she has had to repeat for the past century.

It should bother her to have to do that. It should, but it doesn't.

She accepts it as she has accepted so many unpleasant things in her life.

"_Miro_," her voice is still patient, even as his pout became deeper, his brow furrowing further. "You know mamãe loves you very much." His face becomes longer, waiting for the let down that was doomed to come.

"It is just that," she brings her hand up, stretching her arm as if to cup the side of his face. She doesn't quite reach it, and after a moment, he bends his knees, bringing his face down so that her slim fingers fit against his cheek. "Now that you are grown, you will have to learn to stand on your own more, to need less of me. Others will expect you to treat me that way."

And they will, even though they will never admit it. Francis would expect her to let go, like he had all those years ago with the child that he had loved.

_And Reina? _

Sister Reina would smile prettily at her, as painfully beautiful as the elder always was, and in her honeyed tones she would tell the younger that she deserved no less.

Reina had said as much in her letters, the same ones that Novinha had been holding before her son had come into the room. The elder's elegant, graceful handwriting that covered the rich vellum reminded Novinha of poison spreading through water.

And England…

…she couldn't let her thoughts stray to that. She turns her attention back towards her son, and her smile becomes a little sadder, fitting the feelings in her heart. "I can't be your 'mamãe' forever."

Because if she could, she would.

She would keep him from the rest of the world, keep him safe and happy within the harbor of her lands. She would keep him there, as she had for the centuries that had preceded this day. She would keep him there forever, but she knew he couldn't stay.

She couldn't let him.

She rocked gently on her feet, the motion hidden by the soft creases and folds of her dress. It was hard having to look up at him, hard having to see the shadow of the man that she knew he was growing up to be.

_She couldn't protect him like she used to anymore._

With the last words, he steps back away from her, a hooded look entering his eyes. It wasn't the same childish look that she was used to, and she noted it contemplatively. "I'm already going away, and now you're making me so sad." Those words should have sounded childish, but they didn't. Not with the light that was currently gleaming darkly from his eyes. "What more do you want me to do?"

Those words hardly sound like a request.

'_If anything,' _she thinks to herself, _'they sound like an order.'_

"Miro, querido, we have been over this before." And they had, as this date had loomed closer and closer above them. "As my son, you may call me whatever you may wish. However," she turns away from him, moving back towards the letters that she had been holding before he had entered. "As a _nation_, you will need to distance yourself from my patronage." She looks back over at him, her soft hazel eyes carrying a hint of apology.

"Independence means so many things, meu filho."

It's not the answer he wants, and she can tell by the tightened look on his face. It's the not the one that he wants, but it's the one that he needs.

They stand like that for a while, not saying anything as the distance between them silently grew again. She was on one side of the gulf: an grown woman, an empire who had long since laid to rest any dreams she may have once had about leaving her lands for good.

On the other, stood her son: a strong, beautiful young man, a boy who had all of the potential in the world to make something better of himself, to do better than she had in her life. She had given him anything he had ever asked for, had done everything she could have to make him happy.

But he couldn't stay here, no, not any longer.

Not in this land, this continent where her hopes had already died.

He is the first to break the stalemate between them, taking two long shambling steps backward until the back of his knees hit the edge of her bed, and he lets himself drop down upon it, sitting with his elbows braced against his knees. The bed frame creaks under him, the aged mahogany bearing his weight begrudgingly. He is silent as he sits, the protesting wood the only sound as he lowered his head, his hands dangling uselessly between his knees. She stands patiently apart from him, only watching.

_Waiting_….

"But I don't want to go."

The words come out quietly, and would have sounded almost pathetic if she had been a colder person. But she is not, for she is his mother, and she crosses over to him, raising her arms to wrap around his massive shoulders as she held him to her.

"I know, meu filho, I know. I know that you don't want to."

'_I don't want you to go either.'_

But this isn't about her.

She strokes his hair gently, letting his cheek rest against her shallow breast as she held him against her. "I know this will be a big change for you, but once you are there you will be surprised at how quickly times passes. You will feel at home there, I am sure of it."

Her son makes a muffled sound of protest, wrapping his arms around her narrow waist. "I already got a home."

She nods gently, her hands continuing their patient ministrations. "You will understand once you are there, my dear. They will know you, and they will love you, and it will be as if you had always been there." There's another whining sound at that, as if he had reverted to his younger self, and he presses his face harder against her.

"But you said I can't write to you…"

"No, no, that's not what I said, Miro." But it's close, and she thinks quickly on how to answer. "For the first few, _months_," and it's _'years' _that she means, but she won't say that now, "it will easier for the transition just to focus on yourself. Letters would take too long to cross the Atlântico. It would just cause your poor self so much undue stress by fretting over correspondences that may or may not have been sent."

And it's a nice lie, a good lie.

She always did her best for him.

"But they'll be angry." He says that quietly, not quite with the despairing tone that his other words had held, but softer. More thoughtful. "They'll be mad once they know what I'm doing." And it's not just what _he _will be doing that will make them mad. He pulls away from her, just enough so that his face can look up onto her own. "They'll be mad at you, Mamãe."

And they will. God knows that they will.

Independent thought from the throne was one thing, something that was natural among their kind and could not be helped, but this? Active support of a shift in power against her king? It was like self-cannibalism, both senseless and disloyal. He knows it, though he doesn't understand it. Not quite yet in words. He knows what she is doing is wrong, even though in his child-like innocence he can't quite comprehend 'why'. She smiles prettily at him, bringing one hand down to cup the side of his cheek.

He'll have enough time to figure that out later.

"Miro, my sweet Miro, you need to understand: humans always find reasons to be angry. My people, my rulers, they always find reasons to be angry at one another, to be angry at me."

And if it's another lie, he doesn't have to know it.

"You shouldn't think about these things, my child, they will come and go." Like her own king would, once he returned from his stay abroad. There would be enough instability in the government, so that it would take them a while to realize that her 'heir' was no longer present, that in fact she had sent her adopted child back to his own homeland to carve a nation out for himself. Eventually, they would find out, and yes, they would be angry, but so what?

The bitter taste to her thoughts saddened her, but she was undeterred: did she not have a right to finally be selfish? Did not brother and sister take whatever they had wanted, as long as they were willing to pay the price that their actions merited? Could she not have her own needs? Could at least one of her dreams come true?

No matter.

Her other hand falls to cradle the back of his head, her son's golden face pointed towards her, needing to be led.

_At least her child will be safe._

"Don't worry, Miro. Everything will be alright." And she presses his face against her chest again, running her fingers through his hair in a gentle caress, knowing that she won't be able to for much longer.

"And they need you." She whispers softly, and if he hears her, he doesn't show it.

'_They need you to be there for them.' _

And she knows that they do, even without ever seeing them. It's not his people that she thinks of when she says that, though they would need him as well.

It's the children whom she remembers best, the ones who would be full grown now, centuries having past since she had last seen them. In all the years that had past since that horrible day, she had not gone back to those lands. Not once. And was it respect for her sister, whose beautiful, malevolent strength always towered over her, even in these age?

Or was it more, something she tried to deny when the sun held reign in the land, but would creep back to her in the loneliness of night.

Guilt.

_Always guilt._

For what she should have done, but never had the courage to do.

"So, try hard, my child." Her arms wrap around him a little tighter, and his own reciprocate by clenching tighter around her waist. "Please try very hard." And she knows that he is crying, even though she can't see his face: the quiet, ragged draw of his breath and the slight shuddering of his shoulders tells her all that she needs to know. He nods, his head still buried against her thin chest.

"Because you are the best part of me." And if there is only one true thing she has said in her entire life, it is that.

There's a husky twinge in her voice, and she can feel a solitary tear sliding down her face as she held onto him. "You are the very best part of me, so please remember that." And there's another now, with more following after it. She holds onto her child, her tears falling into his hair, and for a while longer, they are still a family.

And he will still have to go.

* * *

**Historical Note: **During and after the Napoleonic wars, the Portuguese royal family had fled the country, finding safe harbor in Portuguese colony of Brazil as they fought to retain control of their empire. With the ensuing power vacuum, revolutionaries were able to gain a foothold in power, and in 1820 they were able to force the king to come back to the homeland, eventually creating a constitutional monarchy that took away much of his power. It was before and during this that Brazil, which was in a more stable position than it's mother colonizer, Portugal, began to grow in strength, and when the revolutionaries tried to have it diminished into a mere colonial holding again (as the Principality of Brazil, instead of the Kingdom of Brazil as it had been for the past five years), they failed.

The Portuguese government would be in turmoil for years, and in 1822 Brazil declared independence, an independence that would be recognized by the 'motherland' three years later. From there on, Brazil began its rise, as the Portuguese Empire began its fall.

**Author's Note: **Letting go is never easy, but it has to be done. Besides, what better way to passively-aggressively undercut a sibling's power than essentially letting Brazil go, where he will stabilize the southern continent against old colonial nations? So very clever, darling Portugal.

And cowardly.

**Portugal: **Novinha Madalena Graça.  
**Brazil: '**Miro' Veríssimo Hermenegildo Graça, adopted son of Portugal.

**Lembre-se Que Eu Te Amo: **Remember that I love you.  
**Meu caro: **My dear.  
**Mamãe está feliz, sim?: **Mother is happy, yes?  
**Meu filho: **My son.

**Up Next: **_And we all fall down. __Multan, 323 AD_


	25. Diakopí

**20101217:** Ok, that took a little longer to re-edit than I thought. Anyways, here is the polished copy, thanks to my lovely beta Pretense.

* * *

**Everlasting Night**

**Title: **Prelude to Conflict  
**Chapter 25: **Diakopí  
**Characters: **Ancient Greece  
**Rating: **PG-13  
**Summary: **We could not escape this day, even though we tried.

_Babylon, June 323 BC_

Cold marble rests under his palms, the only sensation his dulled senses can feel at the moment.

There's movement all around him, the blurs finally beginning to run together as harsh rays of the dying sun filtered their way through the latticed screens that surrounded the halls around the royal bedchamber. He hardly notices them, faceless shapes darting about, each determined to carry out their tasks or perish trying. The favor is returned as they rush past him, ignoring him as surely as he did them, each one's mind clouded with thoughts of worry intermingled with a sense of duty, fear lacing itself like a spiders web around them all.

They all fear what he already knows, and if it wasn't for their innate drive to fruitless hope, they would have stopped in their tracks long ago, finished with the duty of worry and allowing themselves to see the truth. As their nation, he was already a step ahead of them. He moves his arms, letting his elbows rest against his knees, his palms now cradling the back of his neck, his head hung down as if in prayer.

He knew what was happening even if he didn't want to admit it; he knew what the consequences of the next few hours (_or did they even have that long_?) would bring upon them all. He knew, but unlike them - his poor, frightened children - he did not let his troubles show upon his face.

No, not him.

Instead, Greece's face was calm, as pale and as immovable as the marble that he sat upon. His eyes, half-lidded, disinterestedly glanced out upon the floor, following the lines and whorls that were ingrained within the stone, watching the lines with vague interest as he felt his heart within his chest, each beat in time with that of his ailing king's.

Just watching.

_Waiting._

_He wondered where she was right then…_

His ears catch onto the sound of rising commotion; automatically his eyes rise up, the reaction as automatic as it was unnecessary. There's a flutter of commotion at the end of the hall, and then the sound of flesh hitting stone, the unfortunate body of his king's latest doctor hitting the floor violently. Angry hands grabbed out at the man's robes, his desperate pleas ignored as rough hands (roughened by years spent far away from home) hauled him away, his execution all but assured.

Greece doesn't protest the action. He didn't before, when it first occurred, nor now. His people deserved their blood.

_They deserved so much more than he had been able to give them._

With that, almost in an instant the voices died in the rooms, the men who had been nervously fretting around the king's chambers glad for the latest distraction, anything to keep their minds from the inevitable. Greece watches their retreating forms, watches as they follow after their mob, and then closes his eyes. His weary lids close over his faded green eyes, and he allows himself to savor the silence for the few blissful moments.

It was quiet.

The silence, though as needed and wonderful as it is, weighs heavily around him; even in his tired haze, he could feel the soft tinges of guilt slowly start to creep across the corners of his mind, the taste of it far too familiar. The silence, a comforting balm for his ravaged nerves, was also a reminder of the time that he was living in.

_And of what no longer was._

He finds himself shifting for a moment, rolling his shoulders ever so slightly; immediately, he regrets the motion, his stiff joints protesting the abrupt movement. It had been hours since he had switched positions. Still, the cold marble that had served as his seat forsaken as his knees straightened out, a dull ache making itself known through his spine as he brought himself to standing position.

His eyes, still half-lidded, widen as he finds the world losing focus for a moment. He is mildly alarmed to find himself swaying on his feet, but he steadies himself, the flitting vertigo gone before he can feel nauseous. His thought processes are dulled, and the vague task of keeping himself on his feet distracts him from _where _his feet are leading him, from what he has been waiting all of this time to do.

'_Why is there so much gray?'_

That is the first thought that seeps its way into his conscious as he enters the darkened room. Normally, in the convalescent's room, the sterile brightness would be the first sight to assail the senses, the curtains and hangings flung to the far sides of the rails as the day's light streamed through open windows, an unspoken demand that the illness that laid claim to the invalid would leave once and forever. Should they be required, fires would be lit, banishing the drafts that plagued the upper reaches of palaces, and there would be people all around, the sickened never left alone lest illness claim them in solitude.

'_But_,' Greece's steps are quiet as he enters in, carefully brushing aside some of the loose hangings that draped haphazardly across the archway leading into the bedchamber, _'this is not right'. _The material of the tapestry, thick, dyed camel hair, felt heavy against his hand. They were not the kind of hangings that normally adorned her palaces, the fabric too coarse and common to be on proud display by the kings who once ruled her lands. '_Nor'_, he thought quietly, were they proper for the season, the unusually mild weather still more than warm enough to prevent chills from coming upon the occupants of the thousand rooms that littered the main palace grounds that surround the area.

No, nothing in this room was right. There was silence, and within that emptiness, with only a dying man's labored breathing proving to the world that he was still alive.

This was not a place for a man to recover, let a lone a king. And in that, this place was perfect.

_Fingers weaving through dark hair, careful not to twist the strands into knots as he pulled the other closer. Dark hair to match dark skin, and he knew if he raised his to her face, that her eyes, her eyes-_

_-with their cold, bitter gaze that cut him like knives upon his flesh, that they were-_

But that wasn't a new thought. In the years before this day, those memories would have torn into him like they had when they had happened: but that was then. Even now, as the faint, ragged breaths from his failing king reached his ears, he could feel them slip away from him, dulling in contrast to the solid fact that hung over his head as he moved closer to the man that he thought would lead him through Asia.

'_Because_…'

Because this wasn't the room of someone who was going to get better.

He was beside his king now, and from here he can see the man (who was once a boy, and who will now never know the wisdom of old age) laying upon the bed, his face streaked with sweat, his lips openly feverishly as they sought to draw air into his lungs, anything to quell the unstoppable fire that burned within his poor king's body. He watched, surrounded only by shadows that ushered in the beginnings of twilight, that seeped the world into a gray that reminded him of eyes that smothered him with hate.

'_Why is it always gray?'_

_

* * *

_

_Northern India, 326 BC_

_Of all of the things he had lived through in his centuries of life, nothing had prepared him for this._

_He had heard whispers from his people of the land that Heracles himself was to have wandered once in his days of mortal youth. He had also heard less glowing whispers of savagery from the men who had come under his allegiance as Persia gave him her generals. He had asked her about it, only to be met with her normal cold, disapproving glare. He supposed the question might had been seen as weakness, something that, even now, when he was finally able to draw her near, that he knew she saw him in him._

_He did not ask her again._

_India. It was supposed to be lost continent, the land that reached into the end of their world. He had hoped that perhaps, he could find answers there, that after the fighting and the bloodshed there could be peace, and with that a greater understanding of their world and their fellow nations. _

_The place where men went to become heroes, where heroes went to become gods…_

It was the rotted womb of the earth.

_For years he had fought, his men (his poor, brave, fearful soldiers), pouring in from the rugged mountains that were the Hindu Kush into the plains that should have made conquest only a matter of time. Instead, what he had found were jungles, the land rich with growth, the whole of the living earth a defense against those who thought they could come into this land unhindered. The land that had once welcomed them in had now closed in around them, drawing them in as the land feasted on his men's blood._

_He knew who he was supposed to be fighting, he knew who had brought the woman he had loved here, so far away from her conquered home. He knew, from the boy's frightened words, that a _**man **_ruled these lands, a _**man **_whose empire was comprised of all of the rival nations that made up this part of the world. It didn't matter to Greece, he followed his king into the melee, and battle after battle, slaughter after slaughter, they drove deeper into the subcontinent, farther and farther away from the lands he once knew._

_For the life of him, Greece could hardly remember what the man looked like. Tall? Strong? He could not remember, even though those years had barely passed. But he __**knew **__whenever the other was there. He could tell by the set of her jaw, the tightness in her shoulders as she stood beside him, only waiting for the moment to descend upon her brother's people to end their lives, hacking away at her weakened brother with a ferocity that both frightened and reminded Greece of why he had desired her to stand beside him._

_But this land…_

_It was not his homeland, nor hers, nor even the brother whom she hated so dearly. No, they were not the masters of this land, this land which had opened up so easily to them, only to close down around them like the trap that it had been. As they pushed farther into the lands, it felt as if the air around them had become rancid, poisoning any rational thought as surely as the water corrupted them from the inside out. She had never been near to the battlefield, had never watched her men die as Greece's professional army plowed through without hesitation._

_But she was there all the same._

_He could feel her all around him, watching them as they came into her lands. He could feel her watching him, watching him as he woke up from delirious nightmares as half of his men fell to malaria in a particularly disastrous campaign. It was almost as if she thrived on the blood that both sides shared, the fallen fertilizing her lands as Greece and his allies fought against her master._

_If it was possible, in some ways this woman frightened him more than Persia did. Persia, though she hated him, had suffered as he did, her own anger and frustration guiding her as she fought by his side, bound by their common goals as surely as Greece was bound to her by his own desire._

_But India…_

_She __**thrived **__on her falling partner, his defeat pyrrhic victories to her even as Greece moved deeper into her lands. She watched as he suffered for her, and even when Greece's armies were forced to pull back, he knew there would be no victory for the man, the wretched bastard sibling of the woman he loved. He was dying on his feet as India cannibalized his strength, and Greece knew that before he ever reached Pella, that this enemy, this empire, this _**man**_, would already be dead. This man, dying in a land that was not his own, desperately trying to hold onto a way of life that was slipping away into the shadows of the past._

_And as he withdrew from the land, bringing his king, who shared his name, and his armies back across the mountains, he knew that both of them had lost._

_One had kept his land at the cost of his life, and would die feeding the strength of the woman he had been fighting for._

_And Greece?_

_He had a glimpse of what was to come, etched upon Persia's bitter, angry face, as she was robbed of the chance to watch her brother die._

_To think that the conquest of Babylon was to be the highlight of his life…_

_

* * *

_

"Where is she?"

For a moment, Greece ignores his king, his mind unable - or unwilling - to register the question he had been asked. It take a moment for it to sink in, and he is almost surprised by it, his dry eyes blinking owlishly as he tried to come up with an answer. One comes to him eventually. He only has to say the truth.

"She's gone." He looks down at his king's face, empty admonishment underneath his words as if the man before him was still a child. "She has been gone for a while now. You know that."

And if his king did not, he takes the information in stride, surprise and confusion equally absent from his sweating face. There is a momentary pause, and something flickers across the man's mien. "But she will be back, you see." His voice holds calm, steady encouragement even as his cracked lips fumble with the words, as if he was not dying, as if only pointing out a solution to a problem that was painfully obvious to everyone but his nation.

"As long as we're here," _within the city that had held the last of her kings, that undoubtedly would have held more had he not have came, had he __**just left her alone**_, "she will have to come back." His king's gaze is still upon him, and the delirious warmth in his eyes could almost be mistaken for hope.

"She has to if she wants to survive."

But Greece knows that that isn't true.

"She won't come back to us, I'm afraid." Greece's words are calm. It's almost as if he is talking about a stranger instead of the woman whose memory haunted him in these palace halls, and whose hateful eyes still came to him in dreams. "I don't think that we will see her again."

His king laughs, or at least tries to: the wet, choking sound that comes out of his throat is both gruesome as it is pitiful. "If she does not, she will, she will," he stops for a moment, and a true cough escapes his lips, the action soon followed by a convulsion that Greece patiently watches until it is over. Minutes pass, the bedridden king fighting to live, and eventually he musters up the strength to finish his sentence, his feverish eyes staring intently upon his nation. "She will die if she is lost, if she is forgotten."

Greece listens to the pronouncement, and smiles gently at his king, the gesture never reaching his weary eyes. "But as long as she is lost, she can be believed in." His words are quiet as his smile widens, and he wonders if she ever thinks of him, as she rides out past the wastelands where his men dared not go. "That is all that she needs to stay alive."

_And as long as she is gone, she can be a dream, one that her people will hope for and believe in as they gazed upon their foreign masters with bitterness in their hearts. A dozen generations could pass, and she would still be theirs, and surely as they would be her own._

As surely as he would still be alone, sentenced by his own failure and doomed by his weakness.

"But-"

Greece raises a hand to his king, and for the first time in his 30 odd years of life, the great Alexander of Macedon is silenced by his nation. "It's over."

_And they were all gone._

_

* * *

_

_The children had long fled, before Greece had even fully resigned himself to turning away from the river that had held his destiny. What had become of them, he doesn't know: he knows only that, out of all of them, their abandonment had caused him the least grief. They had held little loyalty from the beginning, only two small, frightened [in the boy's case, at least. Whether the girl felt fear, he could not tell. He had only been able to feel her hate] children, living too closely to empires far older than themselves, waiting for the day that the strong would devour them before they had a chance to grow._

_He wondered if India would kill them. He wondered if she knew what the girl had told them about her, the child's soft words as bitter as Persia's, unrelenting hate already deeply ingrained within the girl, and if she would take her revenge once her victory was finally achieved._

_He wondered too, what she would do about the boy, the one who had pleaded for mercy on her behalf, who had wept for her. Who had begged Greece not to kill her._

_He doubted it would matter._

_Persia, he knew, had only been waiting to be rid of both of them, too pragmatic to allow potential rivals the right to live. The children had slipped away like thieves in the night the day before they reached the Hindu Kush. He had not held it against them that they fled, half-heartedly wishing them well as he lead his armies in retreat, turning a blind eye to their desertion._

_And Persia?_

_Persia…_

_Elaheh…_

_She left him the day before they reached Bactria. The place beside him was still warm when he had awoken._

_And thus, he was alone-_

_

* * *

_

-and he is back in the present. He looks down upon his king, watches the labored rising of the man's chest, watching as the man's diseased lungs tried to force air out and back into his body. The long, once golden hair haloed around his clammy face, the strands slick with sweat and agony. Greece bit back the words on his lips, held them back with the same practiced grace that a lifetime of anger and frustration had molded into something almost like perfection. He lets him eyes remain on the prone man for a few moments longer, and then lets them slid away from the fading conqueror as he steps back.

"I'm sorr-" and the word is cut off by a serious of furious coughs, the young king choking on his own spit as his strength left him. Greece kept walking. He knows that the men will be back soon, that it was a stroke of damned luck that he would have private audience with his king one last time. But Greece is older than his poor king, and he knows better than to believe in luck. With this last meeting, he is allowed a taste of what is to come, a quick glimpse of his own mortality reflected in the face of his dying king.

_He wonder if the gods are mocking him, or if they are hiding their own faces from what the truth has become._

He knew that it had been a mistake to follow after his king this far, to let the man's dreams of a united world become a delusion of immortality that was so cruelly punished by the world around him.

He knew too, that it had been a mistake to bend to her pride, as damnable and unavoidable as everything else had been. He had loved her enough to let her keep her freedom and her bitterness, to let it fester inside her heart until what they shared together was a rotted form of an emotion he wanted to call love.

_And now…_

He continues walking, not minding as he turns his back on his king, letting the man lose himself in solitude as his body burned itself alive.

He walks away, knowing that it is a long way back to Athens, back to his home and away from these lands which he had once held such hopes for, that he had dreamed of bringing into his empire.

He knows that there is nothing left for him here.

Worse, he knows what awaits for him in the Mediterranean, knowing that the child he remembers from so long ago will be eagerly awaiting his return-

_-and greedily waiting for news of his failure, and it is no one's fault but his own -_

And he knows, as he walks away, as the sounds of voices grow louder, nearer, as the men return from there task, soon to find their once mighty king dead in another king's bedchambers. He knows also that Persia is out there, somewhere, within the far stretches of the land that had been her birthright, the land that she had roamed in the millennia before he had been born.

Watching.

_Watching as he stumbled, as his once invincible forces broken up, as he made his way alone back to his own people in humiliating defeat._

Waiting_._

_Waiting for his king to die. Waiting for the moment that she could return, until she could reclaim her pride and purge his presence from her lands, taking back her world as she saw fit._

_Waiting for him to die, so that her hatred could finally burn over so that it could stop consuming her once and for all._

He knows this. He always had. He knows it as surely as she knows (even with her damnable pride) that he had never meant to hurt her, never meant to drive her away with his own weakness. Her pride could not allow her to stay, not when his defeat had made it known to the world that he was the kind of man she had always feared him to be. She knew he had loved her, just as easily as he knew that the gesture could not be returned. He never blamed her for it.

He never had, and never will.

He knows what will happen to him once he returns to his homeland, and he knows -

_- Her eyes, which were a gray that he could never name, eyes which both chilled and burned him whenever she looked at him, that had drove him to do anything he could that would keep her near him. The gray, which was both a mix of death and bitter, everlasting life which refused to be conquered even as she should by his side. And he had loved her, he would always love her but -_

- that she carries his child.

* * *

**Historical Notes: **As we know, Alexander the Great's campaign to rule the world was more or less stonewalled at the Ganges River in 326 BC, even though Alexander's troops had recently won the Battle of Hydaspes. Unfortunately for our favorite Macedonian and his Persian allies, Alexander's troops had had enough of marching across the known/unknown world, and mutinied before the reached the Ganges.

The warfare that the Greek troops faced in the sub-Indian continent was nothing like what these men had experience in their king's earlier campaigns, and the fear of facing another monster army [that was believed to be waiting for them right across the Ganges] pushed them to rebel, and eventually Alexander resigned himself to turning back, thus ending his expansion in Indian. While he held onto some of the northwestern part of today's modern India, he didn't live to see much use of it.

Though historians debate whether or not Alexander's death involved foul play (it is believed he died of malaria or typhoid fever), the once great, young, glorious king died in despair, a shell of the golden man he had been when he first conquered Persia only a few years before. He was no longer loved by all, no longer the invincible king who had conquered most of the known world before he even turned 30.

Persia, after Alexander's death, would be ruled by one of the Macedon's generals, Seleucus, who would found the Seleucid Empire, which stretched from modern Turkey to Pakistan. It lasted for less than 100 years, and a restrengthened Persia would eventually re-emerge, becoming the colossal empire of Asia that would reign supreme until the Mongol hordes came over a thousand years later.

Diakopí - Break

**Next: **_Honey words on poisoned lips bring the end just as swiftly, but allows the heart to linger. Bayonne, 1793_


End file.
